Collision
by inthelookingglass
Summary: One night and a couple of stupid mistakes threaten to change their lives forever. Modern car crash AU.
1. And Then It All Went Black

_ In a collision or explosion,  
__ the total momentum before  
__ will equal the total momentum after  
__ in the absense of external forces._

...

Under the tangling mass of thick blonde hair and the amalgamation of papers and books sprawled across the desk, Courfeyrac can just about see the scrunched up pale face of his friend Enjolras amidst the mess. It seems awfully cruel to disrupt the man whilst he's so deep in thought with his brow furrowed and his tongue sticking out with concentration, but it's edging into his fifth hour and he's let this go on too far. He takes a tepid couple of steps forward and stands there, waiting for the other man to acknowledge his presence.

"I know you're there Courfeyrac," he sighs, not looking up from his papers. "I'm just choosing to ignore you. And before you say it, I'm not stopping working. And I'm not coming tonight."

"But it's Bahorel's birthday and there's going to be cake and everything-" Courfeyrac protests.

"All the more reason not to want to come."

"You really are a party pooper, you know that?"

"Good. Now will you please leave me alone to study?"

The upcoming university exam may be his excuse, but it's not his only reason for skipping out on the night out. Normally these sorts of outings would be held at the Musain- the bar in the student union- but seeing as the entire building has been shut down for renovations, they've had to relocate to a reclusive bar elsewhere. Enjolras just knows that his friends are going to use this all as an excuse to drink themselves into oblivion although the actual purpose is a meeting for the student society that he runs.

"Come on Enjolras! You don't have to come tonight, but you have to at least take a break from all of this," Combeferre appears behind Courfeyrac.

"No he has to come; he never lets his hair down. Just one night, for me?"

"C-can you just-..." Enjolras sighs and places his head in his hand, letting his pen fall onto the desk with a mighty thud.

"Courfeyrac, could you fetch a glass of water?" Combeferre pulls over a chair and sits beside Enjolras. "You are insufferable, my friend. You know working for too long will leave you with a headache."

"I'm okay-"

"How bad is the headache?"

"Feels like the beginning of a migraine," he hesitates before finally admitting what is wrong as Courfeyrac hands him the glass of water. "Thank you."

"Sorry. I just miss you when you aren't with us, that's all," Courfeyrac places a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I won't pester you about tonight, okay?"

"Just hold back on the studying," Combeferre adds. "I know it seems out of character for you, but _please _rest. You'll feel better if you do."

He sighs, accepting the defeat and trudges towards the sofa. He falls asleep almost instantly, and Combeferre quickly fetches a blanket to keep him warm. Jean Prouvaire arrives as Bahorel and Joly will be picking the trio up in about two hours' time. He smiles towards the bespectacled man as he steps in the door, but his smile quickly fades when he sees Courfeyrac standing in the hall.

He doesn't hate Courfeyrac; in fact, it's the absolute opposite. Things between them have been complicated for a while; they dated, broke up, argued and now are in the awkward stage where they're friends, but can't shake the history between them. Courfeyrac smiles awkwardly, a strange feeling of guilt building in his stomach as he watches the man enter the living room. He knows that he had been the one at fault, yet the 'sorry' lingers in his throat as a bitter memory washes over him, and the word never drifts past his lips.

...

"Are you sure you don't want to come tonight?" Bossuet asks Musichetta as she drops Joly and himself at the football cages.

"I have three lab write-ups to finish, I need the quiet night in," she laughs. "Without you two, I'll probably manage to get them finished for once."

The pair join Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire and kick a ball around. They'll be going to pick up the others in a couple of hours, but for now they have time to just relax and play a bit of football. They're about an hour into the match(Feuilly, Grantaire and Joly versus Bahorel and Bossuet) before it's clear which team is going to win.

"There's only one Paul Bahorel!" he celebrates a goal, shoving his hands in the air before tackling the ball off Grantaire again. "He dribbles the ball past the defenders, narrowly escaping Feuilly. He gets past Joly and he shoots... AND HE SCORES!"

"The only reason you're winning is because Courfeyrac isn't here," Feuilly laughs, grabbing the ball off of the ground and holding it under his arm. "So calm your ham and get a move on; we should go pick up the others."

"You are a stick in the mud, Feuilly. Can't we just play for another half hour?"

"What do you think it is, your birthday?"

"Yeah it is actually."

"Piss off."

"Oi, Oi! Be nice to the birthday boy!"

Grantaire hops into his own car with Bossuet and Feuilly and heads towards Cosette and Marius' house, whilst Bahorel and Joly take a little bit longer, but eventually end up at Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras' student flat.

...

"Is Enjolras not coming?" Joly raises an eyebrow when only three men appear at the door.

"Gave himself a migraine studying all day," Courfeyrac explains. "Don't look so worried, Jol'. He's fine."

"Can we go now?" Bahorel crosses his arms, smirking towards his friends. "The night is still young; I'd like to embrace it before it goes all old and wrinkly."

"Have fun!" they can hear Enjolras shouting as enthusiastically as he can muster in his current state(which is almost catatonic, his head moulding into the cushion of the sofa).

Piling into the car, it's a squeeze for three of them to fit into the backseat. Little Courfeyrac- the shortest of the group- is of course in the middle, with Joly and Jehan on either side of him. Combeferre- one of the tallest of the group- sits in the front seat, with Bahorel driving. If there's anything that Combeferre is afraid of(which is saying something, seeing as he doesn't get scared easily), it's this particular friend's handling of a car. He drives far too fast, passes through red lights almost daily, doesn't understand the meaning of a 'give way' sign and every turn sends his passenger's stomach's into their throats. Another swerve makes the car feel as if it's driving on only two wheels, and Joly almost gags with motion sickness as the car finally settles and Bahorel drives a little less recklessly.

"How did you even pass your driver's test Bahorel?" Courfeyrac fakes a retch.

"Believe it or not I can drive properly; driving recklessly is just a lot more fun," Bahorel grins.

"You're an asshole," Jean Prouvaire laughs whole-heartedly.

"That's a nice thing to say to the birthday boy..."

"What, so because it's the anniversary of your birth we have to be nice to you?" Joly smirks, shaking his head as a guffawing laughter rises in his throat.

"Yes you do actually. Or the birthday fairy will send you straight to hell."

"There's a birthday fairy now?" Combeferre sighs, chuckling under his breath.

"No I meant um... a birthday gorilla?" he tries to come up with something he deems as 'manlier'. "A magical birthday gorilla."

By the time the others arrive at Cosette's house to pick up Marius, Cosette and Eponine, Marius has decided that now is the right time to have a meltdown over the fact that he has university exams in little over a week. Mid-panic, he declares desperately that he's not coming and proceeds to bury himself in sheets of paper and books. Cosette and Eponine take care to quickly slip out of the house and into the back seat of the car with Feuilly, quickly avoiding the (teary) wrath of a stressed Marius.

"Drive, drive, drive!" Eponine jokes. "Before he starts wailing."

"He chooses the worst times to have a freak out, doesn't he?" Cosette shakes her head. "Best to just leave him be, isn't it?"

"I love how Marius and Enjolras are the only two that actually even care about these tests," Bossuet shakes his head, giggling. "Joly texted, Enjolras isn't coming."

"Aw that sucks," Feuilly sighs. "I like Enjolras' company."

"Has Bahorel's driving killed them yet?" Eponine grins.

"Nope, but Joly almost puked."

"No wonder. It's like he's playing Mario Kart in real life," Grantaire laughs.

"More like Grand Theft Auto," Cosette adds, earning fits of laughter from the rest of the group.

Thankfully, Grantaire's driving is much calmer compared to Bahorel's, and his friends feel safe in his car. They come towards the give-way sign where they're expecting Bahorel's car to pass by any second. It doesn't. Grantaire takes one last look at the empty road and puts his foot down on the accelerator. But Bahorel's car appears, as he presses the accelerator a little more than he should.

He's moving so fast that he still thinks Grantaire's car is still. It's not. It drives full force into the side of his car.

And everything goes black.


	2. Flower Puppies

_***Two months before**_*

"So this is it?" Courfeyrac grins, placing his suitcase onto the floor. "We're in for a great year lads."

"Courf?" Enjolras sighs, cocking his head to the side.

"Hmm?"

"This place isn't for parties."

"It's not just for studying either though."

"Courfeyrac is right," Combeferre smiles. "You got away with all-nighters in the student accommodation last year, but we're not letting you work for longer than two hours at a time, my friend."

There's no point explaining to him; he's a workaholic at heart, and he has no intentions of changing that any time soon. During his first year of university, he insisted on reading ahead and going past what was asked of him, and now that he's in his second year he's already decided that this practice is something he's going to repeat. His friends may protest against it, but no matter what they say, he genuinely enjoys spending the majority of his time writing essays or revising; he's fervently passionate about the subject of law, so it doesn't feel work to him.

But that had been in his first year; just a week into another term, and the workload has tripled. It's physically impossible for him to exceed the quota, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Whilst Courfeyrac -who is also in his second year of studying law- spends very little of his time in the house, Enjolras is almost always glued to his desk with his head buried in a book or his hand scribbling furiously. He won't admit it, but he's struggling. With all the pressure, he's struggling to get the basic minimum finished.

"Remind me again why you're going out tonight?" Enjolras asks Courfeyrac.

"It's freshers week," Courfeyrac looks at his friend as if he's just grown two heads.

"Gee, you're a first year?"

"Remind me again why you're writing an essay that's due for _next month_?" Courfeyrac laughs, poking out his tongue.

"Next week actually."

"Shit, seriously?"

"We're not in first year any more, Courf," he smiles and gets up, squeezing his friend's shoulders as he walks by. "Maybe you should start your own essay instead of partying with the young'uns?"

Courfeyrac doesn't listen, grinning widely as he wanders out of the door. He wasn't planning on taking advantage of 'freshers week', but cheap drinks in the Musain-the student union bar- and the Corinthe-the lunch hall on the floor below- are something he's not going to pass up. And besides, it's not as if his roommates are going to be very good company; it's impossible to get Enjolras to relax and have a good time, and Combeferre has work most nights even after a full day of university.

He realises quickly that the Corinthe is empty(which is a shame, because when full it can be one of his favourite party venues), but smiles when he realises that the Musain is full to the brim. Drunk freshers stumble around, screaming and singing and dancing wildly across the floor. He grins, remembering that this was him the year before; poor Combeferre literally had to peel him off the floor, and that was just the first day of the wild week. He's not the only one taking advantage of the event; art student Grantaire- one of Courfeyrac's drinking buddies- greets him by the bar, handing him a cup of the half-price alcohol.

"I swear, this wasn't as fun last year," Grantaire calls out, shouting over the thumping of the music. "Too bad Joly and Bossuet bailed on us tonight."

"Screw them," Courfeyrac grins, accepting the drink. "Coming to dance?"

"Come on then."

Grantaire- having danced seriously throughout the duration of his life- reserves his more technical dance skills for off the dance floor. Despite his talents, he resorts straight towards the dancy style which can only be described as 'dad-dancing'. As he starts shuffling side to side waving his hands in the air, Courfeyrac begins to distance himself from his friend. Walking- well, moonwalking- backwards, he collides with someone and falls to the ground with an almighty thud.

"I'm... I'm so sorry-..." he stumbles, jumping to his feet and helping the other man to get up.

He's not usually so shy, yet there's something about the man in front of him which robs the words from his throat and silences him. The other man smiles, sorting his thick strawberry blond braid so that it sits on his shoulder.

"No... it's fine," he smiles gently. "It's absolutely fine."

"Courfeyrac," his confidence quickly returns as the man's gentle nature confirms that he isn't going to be earning a punch to the face.

"Jean Prouvaire," he holds out his hand for Courfeyrac to shake. "But you can call me Jehan."

"Come on, let's go somewhere quieter."

They seek solace in the Corinthe, taking a seat in the darker area with their drinks in their hand. Courfeyrac grins widely, not even having to resort to his usual seduction skills to lure in this man; he's already smiling like a madman in response to his new curly haired acquaintance. It's as if something has clicked in Jean Prouvaire; as if this goofy looking man is somehow the man he's been destined to meet. They get talking instantly; about TV shows, music, clothing, films, everything. Courfeyrac could listen to Jehan's voice all day; it's gentle, like the dulcet tones of a guitar honed into a human voice; like he's singing a song every time he opens his mouth.

He's never felt like this before; he's normally a man of one night stands and whirlwind romances that mean nothing to him, but he can't imagine himself doing that to this man. He doesn't want to hook up; he wants to sit and cuddle and watch films until the early hours of the night, to go for long walks in the moonlight, to share a meal at a fancy restaurant, to kiss him under the stars. His heart seems to settle in his chest; he hates to admit it, but maybe he's ready to settle down.

Jean Prouvaire too is memorised; being a poet at heart(and studying english literature), the feeling in his heart is not foreign to him. He has the tendency to fall in love too fast; to attach himself to someone so desperately, that he sends himself into melancholy when it's over. But he's perceptive; he can see the glint in Courfeyrac's eye, and this is an opportunity that he does not want to pass up.

It doesn't matter if they've just met. Courfeyrac's hand rests on the table, slowly turning to accept Jehan's hand into his. The pair move closer towards each other, their hands still touching as their lips press against each other. The kiss is gentle; a far cry from Courfeyrac's usual snogs. His lips mould with Jean Prouvaire's, his hand gently twitching as he places it against the other man's face.

"I um..." Jean Prouvaire blushes. "Can I get your number?"

"Of course," they swap phones, tapping in their contact details. "Come on, let's go dance."


	3. Bahorel's Dilemma

"Meet at the Musain next week?" Courfeyrac whispers in Jean Prouvaire's ear as they walk back home hand in hand. "It's kind stupid...My friend runs this student association which helps like... struggling students; like if they can't afford things, there's funds available? And he does quite a lot of protesting for social justice-"

"I don't really want to get involved in any organizations ye-"

"We don't do much at meetings; Enjolras-my friend- has a little speech at the beginning, then most of us just drink and party. I help out a bit, but that's because I've known the guy since... Since my whole life basically."

"Sounds like my kind of night!"

If Enjolras heard Courfeyrac speaking of the 'Friends of The ABC'(Enjolras had come up with the name, and to this day he's the only one who knows what it actually means if it means anything at all) in such a manner, he'd have broken his nose. Despite the fact many of them use the weekly meetings for nothing more than being social, Enjolras takes it very seriously. Passionate about both education and social justice, the organization provides him with the opportunity to campaign and improve both. Those such as Courfeyrac may scoff at how seriously he takes it, but the likes of Combeferre understands that it's just one more thing that Enjolras wouldn't function without; he needs work like most people need sleep.

The 'Friends of The ABC' are a merry band of misfits; Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire and now Jean Prouvaire make up the majority of the returning members(Enjolras is still wavering whether to call Marius and co. members, seeing as they're not exactly regulars). Aside from Enjolras, only a few of them put as much effort in; Combeferre, Feuilly, Courfeyrac on occasion and Joly and Bossuet once in a while. Jean Prouvaire and his good worth ethic are a good addition to the group as far as Enjolras is concerned, especially in the wake of Grantaire's great apathy for 'the cause'.

There's been many a saturday night in the Musain where the night has been cut short because of Grantaire and his drunkenness; it's been worse recently, with three occasions in two weeks where he's almost vomited or passed out(and one occasion where he did both) with alcohol. Enjolras is never one to judge, but it's beginning to get in the way of any progress and it's not as if Grantaire is even interested in the cause; as far as Enjolras knows, he's only there for the free drinks and banter with the lads.

But that's not the case; the art student may not give a flying monkey about whatever the meetings are actually about, but his purpose for attending these meetings is certainly not as awful as Enjolras may think. He adores the man; a cynical man himself, he is mesmerized by the fact that the man literally throws himself into the work he does with such a fervent passion that doesn't exist within Grantaire. It's superficial-he thinks- that he drags himself to the Musain each week just to admire him, but he can't control it. His feet drag him straight there, even if he's not exactly sure how they drag him back home when he's obliterated himself with alcohol.

He never means to, but there's always a drink laid out in front of him when he arrives(probably Bossuet or Joly's doing) and once he's had one, he's got a taste for it. He watches his friends, such as Bahorel, be able to hold back and stop after just a few whilst his need for it is desperate, his heart palpitating when there isn't something alcoholic for him to sip on on his table. He aches for it until it gets to him, leaving him either down, catatonic or in a wild stupor. Things have been bad for him recently(his mother had died a month or two prior, and he doesn't speak with his test), and drink has always been his outlet. He drinks when he's happy, when he's sad, when he's angry; it's a way of life for him.

But he manages it; he somehow manages to stumble home each night and not choke on his own vomit so for now, he's alive and (mostly) well. He repeats this act every week; attends a meeting, watches Enjolras in awe, lets the drink engulf him subconsciously and then repeat. His friends don't notice; the likes of Bahorel and Courfeyrac are capable of controlling themselves, only wanting another drink because they're having fun. Grantaire makes it seem that way, but he longs for the alcohol running through his system so badly that when he's deprived for too long, he feels physically ill.

"You alright, Bahorel?" Courfeyrac nudges the taller man as he turns down a beer. "You're never this quiet."

"Fine," he practically spits the word out.

"Are you going to be showing up at uni this year, or are you going to be idle again like last term?"

Courfeyrac doesn't quite pick up on it at first, but Bahorel's face squints at the mention of university. His knuckles are turning white with how tightly he's holding his fists, and his face has turned puce in mere seconds. If Courfeyrac's not careful, he could be earning a broken jaw in a minute. One more nudge from the curly haired man and that's it; Bahorel is done. His fist collides with his face so fast that Courfeyrac can't duck. Bahorel storms out of the room, closely followed by a much calmer Feuilly.

"Jeez, are you okay?" Combeferre helps his friend up.

"I'm fine," Courfeyrac waves away Combeferre's hand, standing up on his own. "Go see if Bahorel's alright..."

"Feuilly's out there. I doubt he'll talk to anyone else."

...

"Dude, what was that?" Feuilly's voice is stern, but he's not exactly shouting. "You can't just hit someone like that."

"He just... I didn't meant to..." Bahorel's fist collides with the wall and thankfully not Feuilly's face this time.

"Are you going to tell me what's up?"

"Nothing!"

"I know you-"

"I'm going to get kicked out of uni, okay?"

"I thought you were close to quitting anyway?"

"I... I don't know. It's just the workload is getting impossible to cope with and the professors are awful and I'm not even sure if law's for me. I mean, why do you think I never show up?"

Bahorel has always had the reputation for being idle since he first started university; he shows up for as long as he has to show up for to not get kicked out up until this point, but he is absent from lectures enough for it to appear as a pattern. But now, with things getting harder, he can't afford to get by on his surprisingly good brain. He has a lot depending on staying in university; everything he has at the moment is being funded for him through a scholarship. If he loses his course, he loses the funding and with it, he loses his accommodation.

If it had only been himself that this affected, he'd have flunked out months before; but it also affects Feuilly. With very little money to his name and trying desperately to find a job, Feuilly has been staying with best friend Bahorel for a almost a year now. Bahorel wouldn't mind taking advantage of his other friends to earn a space on a sofa or something if it was just him around; but if Bahorel doesn't have somewhere to stay, then Feuilly doesn't either and that's a weight he doesn't want resting on his shoulders.

"Talk to Enjolras," Feuilly finally speaks. "That's partly what this organisation is for; advice."


	4. The Proposal

Inside the Musain, the wild havoc of the 'party' seems to have subsided. Courfeyrac watches the door worriedly waiting for Bahorel to come back through as Combeferre frets over the gash on his cheek. The mood has turned from jovial and loud to solemn and silent in a matter of seconds. It's just weird to see Bahorel lose his temper like that; although hot headed sometimes, he's not the kind to let things get to him and it's difficult to watch through the cloudy window as he buries his head into Feuilly's shoulder and shouts angrily about whatever is bothering him.

Feuilly returns first, still as calm as he was when he wandered out. It's an admirable trait; to be able to remain so chilled out even when things may seem difficult. It's a trait Feuilly harbours in an indescribable amount. Even out of a job and poor, he somehow manages to stay happy and take everything that comes his way head on. He wanders towards Enjolras, pulling him aside for a second to speak to him in private.

Bahorel finally re-enters the room about five minutes after Feuilly. The others try to make it seem as if they haven't noticed but there's no denying the quick surreptitious glances in his direction, the watchful eyes analysing every little movement; from the twitches of his face to the curling of his fingers. Enjolras-probably the only person in the room not watching the man like a hawk- signals for him to come over.

"Do you want to talk about it here, or would you prefer to step outside and talk in private?" he asks, going straight to the point. "Come on, we'll go outside. Everyone staring is creeping me out a little."

Instead of going out into the hall where Feuilly and Bahorel had sought refuge, Enjolras picks up on Bahorel's tense posture and leads them outside so that his friend can have a cigarette.

"Feuilly said... um..." Bahorel stutters nervously with his cigarette between his teeth as he forages around in his pocket for his lighter.

"He explained it all," Enjolras smiles gently. "So do you want to get kicked out of university or not?"

"I don't even know," he scoffs, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air. "I'd lose my funding and probably have to move in with Grantaire or something."

"You don't want to do that to Feuilly though, do you?"

"I mean, I'm fine with sleeping on a sofa but... Two people. It's just not fair."

"You're probably expecting for me to say start showing up to lectures, aren't you?" Enjolras laughs. "Law is great. I know the lecturer sucks, but that shouldn't make you want to pull out."

"I don't mean to skip out on lectures. The lecturer... he just puts me down all the time. I don't want to show up, so I don't. And the workload is just too huge already this year; I can't cope with it."

"Look, I want you to answer this honestly. Do you want to continue studying law?"

"I think so. I just don't think I can now; it's too late for me."

"I'll... The organisation can provide you with starter funds if you want to study something else or to keep you going so you can think about finding another job," Enjolras sighs. "But I'd be happy- if you are willing to put the effort in, of course-to help you catch up and keep up with the workload. You have to start attending lectures though; they've given you an ultimatum, and they want you to pull yourself together and get on with it."

"What, like tutor me?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Thank you," Bahorel grins, chucking the butt of his cigarette on the floor and squishing it with his foot. "I was going to throw in the towel; I'm not passionate about law like you are. I just... I want to do something with my life. I don't want to be a useless piece of shit like people think I'm going to turn out as-"

"You're not a useless piece of shit. You're clever Bahorel; cleverer than you give yourself credit for."

"Compared to people like you though; how do you cope with it all? I try and write half and essay and Feuilly has to leave the house to avoid me punching him in the face.

"Coffee. Lots and lots of coffee; and believe me, you're not the only person who has wanted to punch Courfeyrac before. Look, you don't need to decide what you want to do until the end of the week, right? So show up to all of the lectures this week, I'll help you catch up and then you can decide on Saturday whether you're going to quit uni or swap courses or whatever; sound like a plan?"

"God I feel like an idiot. Yeah, it does. Thanks, man."

The night ends prematurely, the mood never quite returning to normal. Bahorel is usually the life of the party-whether it be a loud song sung at the top of his voice, a well told anecdote(his most recent being about his recent altercation with a duck and a poodle) or his guffawing laughter- but tonight, with his mood compromised(and the usually lively Courfeyrac's mood too) not one person in the room is in high spirits. He won't admit it, but Enjolras is glad the night is over. All too quickly the meeting was being turned into a party, and he hates that. Although all of his friends are passionate about the organisation to some degree, he's often the one pulling them together and has to force them to do any work. He's glad to be back home and able to continue working on his essay so that he'll have time during the week to help Bahorel.

Jean Prouvaire joins Courfeyrac on the walk home. Over the week, the pair have grown exceptionally close despite the short space of time. Jehan is smitten; Courfeyrac's cheerful nature is exactly what he looks for in a lover. Courfeyrac too is a changed man; usually afraid of commitment, it seems that he's now welcoming it in Prouvaire's company.

Three members who didn't attend the meeting('as usual' Enjolras will mutter) were Marius(one of Courfeyrac's friends), Cosette and their friend Eponine. This had not been without reason. Marius and Cosette have been dating for a while now, and it was only a matter of time before the inevitable occurred.

So with Eponine's help, Marius organises a fabulous night for himself and his girlfriend. It starts with a walk in the park within which they had met, but with a bit of a twist. Dotted throughout the park were sweet love messages(although seeing as they were from Marius, they were cheesy things such as 'I love you so much', and 'I couldn't live without you' and the like) and Cosette's favourite flowers.

Following that, a meal in her favourite restaurant. Thankfully Marius knows the owner, so he manages easily to secure the restaurant all to themselves. Cosette is fully aware of what is going to happen at the end of their meal; Marius is so clichéd in his romantic gestures(and she loves him for it), and the puppy dog smile placed upon his lips makes it all the more obvious. Still, she grins widely as he pulls out the gorgeous little black box with a rim of silver ribbon. It may not be much of a surprise, but her heart thumbs loudly in her chest and she's close to tears as the gentle 'will you marry me?' tiptoes from his tongue.

The ring is beautiful; gold with two small diamonds and one big one in the middle, fitting perfectly around her dainty fingers.

"Of course I will," she grins widely, leaning over the table and placing her hand gently upon his cheek.

They return to the park again, their hands intertwined. Thanks to Eponine(and the council for giving them permission), the park is now decorated; the bench which they first spoke sitting on is draped in twinkling fairy lights, the trees facing it covered in lights arranged into love hearts.

"You've outdone yourself, Marius," she whispers gently as they sit on their bench and rests her head on his shoulder.

"The lights? I can't take credit for that one; that was all Eponine."

Despite being so involved in the organisation of the night, Eponine herself wasn't exactly happy about it. Her heart sinks seeing them together; she loves Marius, yet she's fully aware he'll never love her back. But she's their friend; she can't ruin their day just because of her bad feelings. It's for that reason that she seeks refuge from the one person who she feels understands what she is going through; Grantaire._  
_

He himself is no stranger to unrequited love; as far as he's concerned, Enjolras doesn't reciprocate the feelings he has for him. And why would he anyway? Enjolras is clean cut, clever, in control of his life; Grantaire is scruffy, not intelligent(at least he doesn't think so himself) and completely out of control. They're two ends of a spectrum; two stars destined never to meet; two lines so parallel in some ways, though they'll never be collinear.

"Eponine?" Grantaire opens the door, a slice of toast balancing in his mouth and his laptop in one of his hands. "Marius didn't bottle it, then?"

"Sorry, I just..." she sighs and Grantaire finally notices her frown. "Didn't know who else to speak to."

She can smell the thick odour of alcohol wafting from the man's breath, but she can't judge his habits; a Thernadier, she'd been surrounded by bad things throughout her life(alcohol, drugs, burglary, crime in general) and couldn't be a hypocrite. And besides it's a Saturday and he's been at the Musain, so it's no wonder that he's had a little too much to drink.

"Look, Marius is a prat alright? He leads you on and acts like he doesn't know what he's doing."

"Doesn't change anything. He... I love him, R."

"I know..." he sighs and wraps his arms around her, knowing very well there is little he can say to help. "I know."


	5. Free

It's the early hours of the morning when Combeferre realises that his friend is still up. He sighs, having witnessed this too often to be surprised. Wandering over, all he can see is the man's tangling mess of blond hair sprawled across the table; he doesn't notice that Enjolras is sleeping until he's right beside him. He rolls his eyes again, moving Enjolras' essay out of his way so the pen-still clutched between the blond's fingers as he dreams- doesn't scribble across the paper.

"Enjolras?" he whispers quietly, giving his shoulder a small shake.

"What time is it?" he yawns, resting his head on his crossed arms which are propped up on the desk.

"Five in the morning," Combeferre speaks sternly. "Bed, now."

"Just have one more paragraph to finish, then that's it."

"And it'll be a shitty paragraph in the state you're in; go and sleep. Your essay will still be here when you wake up."

"I hate you."

"I know you do."

...

It's a few days before Marius and Cosette make the announcement about their engagement, but the news is welcomed with open arms as they declare it to all of the people in the Musain. The enthusiasm, however, is most likely due to the fact that there's going to be an engagement party in a week's time. Their friends cheer nonetheless, as the pair connect to kiss again.

Not having such luck however, are Courfeyrac and Jehan. It's not so much that they're not happy together; it's just that neither seems _free. _Courfeyrac-who wouldn't touch commitment with a ten foot barge pole- is struggling the most. He wants one night stands, and quick hook ups and parties where he doesn't feel guilty for feeling the urges to speak to that girl or that guy. Jehan-although painstakingly- agrees; he thinks he loves Courfeyrac, but he's not ready for the challenges a proper relationship may bring.

So there, in the corner of the Musain, they mutually decide to split. Nothing is serious yet; no real heartbreak, no anger, just a pair of close friends. They 'nipped it in the bud' Courfeyrac says, before it bloomed into something that neither was ready to control. Love is a complicated thing; no matter the passion and the ferocity and the adoration, the love two people share can be torn to shreds by moving too quickly.

Another person not having the best of nights is Grantaire. He smelt like he had been drinking already before he arrived('smelled like he'd drank his way through an off-license' Bahorel had noted), and since then, has already downed several pints. He looks forlorn, taking to his usual corner of the bar and avoiding the others like a vampire avoids sunlight. It hasn't gone unnoticed; a twinge of concern for the man sits awkwardly in Enjolras' chest, but he ignores it the best that he can as he guides Bahorel through the past few lectures he may have missed.

Grantaire isn't sure what has got himself so down on this particular day; he just feels low, as if every problem he has to face in his life is weighing down heavily on his shoulders and he just feels like he can't cope any more. With one pint, a few grams of the weight seems to lift; he feels _free. _

The night ends at it's usual time; not as late as on some occasions, but much later than last week's meeting. Nobody sees Grantaire leave; they all seem to pile out in the most disorderly fashion and don't give much notice to the whereabouts of their friends. Enjolras is just a few seconds walk from the Musain when he finds him. He's drunk out of his mind, past the stage of giddiness and now almost catatonic as he leans against the wall of the student union, gagging desperately.

Enjolras doesn't know what to do; he had been the last to leave, so all of his friends are almost half way home by now. Grantaire's apartment is the closest(just up the road from the main university campus), so he decides to take him there rather than back to his own home. The man dry retches before they're even through the door, and Enjolras makes it just in time for him to catch the vomit in a bin rather than for it to go all over the floor.

He's seen the man drunk before, but never like this. He'd seen him wild, dancing and loud; not solemn, depressed and unwell.

"Grantaire, you're ok..." he sighs, desperately trying to pull some form of comforting words from his throat. "I'm going to stay here tonight, okay?"

"Hmm?" he looks up, frowning.

"You may not feel like it, but I'm going to get you a glass of water, alright? Sip it slowly. You'll thank me for it when you don't wake up with a hangover tomorrow morning; although I don't think one glass is going to help much."

"Thank you..." the words are slurred, which is strange as usually Grantaire is a pretty coherent drunk. "I just... I just felt bad, y'know? I... I... So many things."

"Like what Grantaire?"

"You."

"What about me?"

"You hate me. You think I'm worthless."

"Grantaire," Enjolras voice breaks as the man looks up, his eyes numb and devoid of feeling. "I don't hate you."

"M'sorry... I just..."

"It's alright."

"You don't have to stay-"

"I do. I don't want you choking on your own vomit, and I'm worried about you."

"Thank you..."

"Get some sleep. I'll be here."

As the man slips into a deep sleep, Enjolras runs a hand through his hair and takes a shaky breath. He really likes Grantaire as a person, but he struggles to understand why he does this to himself. In another world-in a happier, more controlled world- they could've been happy. Enjolras isn't aware of Grantaire's feelings for him, but in a strange indescribable manner, he does reciprocate them. However, his infatuation is more serious and less naive than Grantaire's adoration for the blond man.

He phones Combeferre quickly, explaining that he's going to be at Grantaire's for the night. He still has some work to do, but it's at the back of his mind. His sole concern is the drunk man in front of him at the moment.

Grantaire emerges from his sleep late in the morning, achy and hungover. Enjolras hands him a glass of water and tells him to rehydrate, before placing a plate of toast and scrambled eggs on the coffee table.

"Eat," he demands.

"Not hungry."

"Eat."

Grantaire complies, taking a couple of cautious bites of toast before he realises he really does have an appetite.

"What happened last night?" Enjolras' tone is a lot less sympathetic this morning.

"I..." Grantaire frowns. "Things have been difficult. I... Drink helps."

"Alcohol is a depressant! It's just going to make you feel worse!"

"Don't be angry with me..."

"I'm not... I'm not angry with you."

"I have no one, Enjolras. No one. My mum- the one person I had- is dead. My dad hates my guts just because I didn't study what he wanted me to study. And... the people at the Musain just tolerate me; nobody considers me their friend."

"Bahorel and Feuilly do. And Joly and Bossuet. And Courfeyrac."

"What about you?"

"I..." Enjolras smiles. "I wish I could consider you as more than a friend."

"What?" Grantaire's eyes light up. "I..."

"But I know you don't see me in that way."

"I thought it was obvious... Enjolras, I worship the bloody ground you walk on! I'm _in love _with you."

"I want to help you, Grantaire. You should speak to someone about the way you're feeling. I'm worried; I want you to be happy, not drinking your life away."

"Thank you. For caring. I'm sorry."

"We'll get through this, okay?"


	6. The Party

**So... final chapter of the flashback:D**

It's been a month since the night Marius and Cosette announced their engagement, and it's finally time for the engagement party. It seems as if all of the previous month's problems have drifted away; with Enjolras' help, Bahorel is showing up to all of his lectures and also with the help of Enjolras, Grantaire has agreed to get help about how he is feeling and hasn't made a relapse of that particularly bad night.

However, when one problem disappears, another always seems to pop up. Courfeyrac and Jean Prouvaire haven't said a word to each other since that night. They'd initially agreed to be friends, but Jehan has greatly changed his mind about the decision. He was infatuated with Courfeyrac, but for it to end so suddenly just doesn't sit well with him. He's carefully avoided the past couple of meetings although he's grown to be close friends with the others, so this evening's party will be the first time he's been in the same room with him for weeks.

Courfeyrac almost protests against going when he hears that Prouvaire is going to be there; he was fully expecting them to still remain as friends, yet Jehan hasn't even made an attempt to speak to him.

"Courf, you have to come," Enjolras sighs as he lifts up his collar to tie his tie. "Don't you think I'd rather stay at home and finish my essay?"

"Come on, Enjolras is coming," Combeferre smiles. "Don't you want to savour this rare event?"

"Oh you're coming?" Courfeyrac's eyes light up.

"You've just realised that? I'm in a bloody suit!"

"I'll come. Can't miss you being sociable for once."

Once the night is in full swing, Courfeyrac is glad he came. He somehow convinces Combeferre to let his hair down which is an occasion he loves as Combeferre is an exceptionally fun drunk. Usually serious and composed, with alcohol in his system he turns into a walking ball of laughter. He's glad of this, because it means he's not devoid of good company. Occasionally he gets a glimpse of Jehan laughing and joking with Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet, but he's having too much fun to care. He's got both of his friends on either side of him, with himself in the centre; alright, Enjolras doesn't look too happy, but give him his dues he's there.

In all the havoc, neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre notice Enjolras quickly dismissing himself from the table. Neither notice when he doesn't return after ten minutes. Neither try and go look for him.

It's fifteen minutes before anyone notices his absence; it's Feuilly- who quietly tells Bahorel and Grantaire that he'll be back in a minute- who slips out of the busy function hall and into the corridor outside to find his friend. It doesn't take long; he finds him just outside of the door, looking particularly forlorn. It's uncharacteristic for him; yes, he's usually not as lively as his other friends(except maybe in the company of Combeferre and Courfeyrac), but he's most often happy in his own strange way.

He doesn't look happy at all; his brow furrowed, his lip curled into a frown; he looks almost as if he's about to burst into tears.

"Enjolras?" Feuilly speaks quietly, walking towards the man who still doesn't look up from the ground.

"I'll be back through in a minute," he voice comes out shaky, and he fiddles with the collar of his shirt.

Feuilly doesn't move a muscle. He watches as Enjolras slides down the wall and shoves his head into his hands. Slowly, he kneels in front of him, resting a gentle yet cautious hand on his friend's knee.

"If I'd have stayed home, I'd had been able to finish that essay..." Feuilly can just about hear Enjolras whisper.

"Come on, let's get some fresh air," he replies as Enjolras finally looks up and pulls himself tiredly to his feet.

"I'm alright, seriously. Just go back inside."

"Enjolras-"

"I'm just stressed, okay? The workload is... I can't cope. I can't."

He's never seen Enjolras uptight about anything; he's hard working, but never _stressed _like this.

"And tutoring Bahorel; I have to do any coursework even faster to have time. And I'm trying to help Grantaire, I really am. I just can't handle it all. I've had a migraine three times in three weeks; it's too much."

"Stay out here for a bit, hmm? The fresh air will help."

"Sorry, I just... The music was too loud and everyone was too happy."

"No, it's fine. Just take a moment. I know you'd rather speak with Combeferre rather than me about all of this."

"Feuilly?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Combeferre comes outside to speak with him quickly. He seems to have sobered up a little as he takes in his friend's tired appearance. Enjolras shakes his head, telling him that he'd rather talk about it another time. Combeferre nods his head, opening his arms to give his friend the one thing that may make him feel better; a hug.

"I'm going to stay outside for a little bit longer. My head kind of hurts, and it's too loud in there," he sighs as he pulls away. "Go enjoy yourself."

Just as he thinks he's going to be blessed by the comfort of only his own company, Grantaire wanders out and joins him. Pulling out a cigarette, he smiles towards Enjolras. He's not drunk; in fact, he's only had one pint tonight(mostly because the function hall's drinks are super expensive, but still).

"Grantaire," he smiles gently.

They talk for a while, about nothing in particular. Grantaire senses something is up with Enjolras, but doesn't press him for an answer. Small talk seems to be helping, so he just goes along with it as the man's muscles loosen up and his face resembles less of a frown. Their eyes lock. They both remain silent. A smile sneaks its way onto Enjolras lips.

Wrapped up in the moment, Grantaire leans in closer. He doesn't care if Enjolras pulls away; but surprisingly he doesn't. He pulls Grantaire closer, leaning into the kiss. His hand subconsciously find's Grantaire's and their fingers interlock. He smiles, his lips still pressed gently upon Grantaire's. They eventually wander back through to hall in better spirits; Grantaire even manages to get Enjolras up for a dance, which is virtually impossible even on a good day.

Without Enjolras by his side however, Courfeyrac's acknowledgement of Jean Prouvaire's presence comes to light. It doesn't help that he's drunk his weight in alcohol and is still chugging to stuff down his throat; with every glance another sip is forced into his mouth. Sobered up from speaking to Enjolras, Combeferre does his best to pull his friend's glass away from him, but there's very little can do when Courfeyrac suddenly bolts towards Jehan's table.

"You," he points directly at Jean Prouvaire. "We were meant to be friends!"

"I-"

"Don't even start."

"Courf, just calm down-" Joly-always the voice of reason- tries his best to pull the man away.

"No! I loved you-"

"You had a funny way of showing it," Jehan mutters under his breath.

"I just... I split with you because I didn't want to hurt you-"

"What? Because you can't help but sleep a-..." Jean Prouvaire desperately tries to take his words back, but it's too late; Courfeyrac has already darted back over to Combeferre, sobbing his drunk little heart out.

Combeferre had seen it coming, but he lets his friend cry into his shoulder nonetheless. He loves the guy, but he'd be the first to admit that Courfeyrac is an idiot sometimes. That's not to say Jean Prouvaire isn't the wrong; his words seem to have struck a raw chord with Courfeyrac, and an apology has still to pass his lips.

Jean Prouvaire attempts to escape the crowded room, but is stopped when Feuilly grabs his arm and pulls him back. The guilt builds in his throat, and before he can even help it, tearful apologies are being muffled into Feuilly's shoulder. He's not the kind to cry much over things like this, but he can't hold back.

The night has proven to be a good night for some; Marius and Cosette both grin widely despite the fact their friends don't seem to be too interested in the actual purpose of the night's celebrations; Enjolras and Grantaire haven't left each other's company all night; Bahorel's had a blast; and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta spent most of the night up dancing(well, up until Bossuet tripped over on his ankle and had to do the macarena in a chair on the sidelines). Despite the night's success, there have of course been the not so great moments; Enjolras' mini meltdown; Courfeyrac and Jehan's 'tiff'; and poor Feuilly having to pick up the pieces.


	7. Coming to His Senses

**Warning: Descriptions of injury, blood, etc.**

Silence; that's all Jean Prouvaire can hear. He waits for a second, observing the feeling in his limbs before deciding it will be alright for him to sit up. He's not exactly sure what has just happened; all he can tell is that his arms ache a little, and his head feels a little wet. The silence is broken by a gentle cough -crackly and in spurts- from the front seat. A hand raises up to his forehead; _red. _The metallic taste in his mouth finally hits him, and it takes everything he has to suppress the gag which trickles its way into his gullet.

Claustrophobic all of a sudden by the rising nausea, Jehan practically jumps out of the crashed door and out onto the gravel below. He takes a minute to get to his feet, the world spinning around him. His vision is blurred; everything is just one big merging mess of muted colour. He speaks aimlessly- probably a slurred call of 'Bahorel' or 'Combeferre' or 'Courfeyrac'- as he tries to register the car he's just climbed out of.

"Jehan?" the sound of Bahorel's voice echoes in his ears, his words seeming to come slower than his mouth is saying them. "I can't get out... The door..."

"Are you hurt?" he can barely hear his own voice, although he feels the awful scratch in his throat as he speaks them.

"Broken nose, probably; third time. I'm fine otherwise."

"I-I..." he stumbles closer towards the car. "See if Combeferre's alright... I-I'll check the backseat."

Courfeyrac is crushed under a heap of metal, his head lolling all too floppily for Jehan's liking. His mouth feels dry, the thick taste of blood getting stronger as he desperately tries to generate more saliva. He closes his eyes for a second, trying to focus so he can properly acknowledge the scene. His attempts are futile; he eyes feel like their about to jump out of his pounding head.

"J-Joly?" he tries, but his voice is broken and quiet.

"Don't move me!" he hears, although his sight is so blurry that he can't get a good look at the man's straining face from the mess of debri and metal. "I-I've definitely hurt my spine... I can still feel my legs... Don't move me! Please! My legs... I can still feel my legs!"

"It's... alright Joly," he manages to force out, all sounds now feeling like they're going to burst his eardrum.

The clench of metal rings in his ear. Joly's silent cries feel like roaring sobs.

"Are you hurt, Jehan?"

"N-no. S-shock."

"What about... others?"

"Bahorel is o-okay. I-I'll... g-g-go see the other car."

He stumbles towards the hunk of destroyed blue metal, his feet dragging across the pavement. Dazed, he doesn't notice as he trips over a body- an all too lifeless body- and crashes to the ground. His hand is coated red, and not with his own blood. He turns around, everything happening as if a second feels like a day.

_Feuilly. _His silent body soon erupts with noise, spluttering and desperately trying to get a breath. His eyes flutter, blood running down from the great gash on his forehead and soaking his eyelashes. The coughing continues, the thick red substance dripping like a tap from the corners of his mouth. And then silence; nothing but silence.

"F-Feuilly!" Jehan is shaking, his hands desperately feeling for a hearbeat on Feuilly's chest; nothing. "F-F-Feuilly..."

He retches, blood from his dripping nose staining the vomit as he struggles to steady himself. He doesn't quite register the fact that his friend is dead; he doesn't quite register anything. Just fear; inescapable, uncontrollable fear.

A scream of pain breaks his trance, and he forces himself towards Grantaire's car where he finds the driver yelling in agony.

"M-my leg!" he calls out. "Jehan, get this hunk of metal off of my leg!"

"I-..." his muscles are too weak for him to be able to do anything.

"Jehan, open the door," he sees Bossuet-blood dripping from his bald head- trying to open his door.

With help, he manages to thrust the metal open and climb out. He shoves his arms around Jean Prouvaire's neck, shaking desperately.

"I'm okay. I'm going to go try and find help," he says calmly.

"Eponine and Cosette..."

"Are alive. Cosette's alright; stuck and in shock. Eponine's in a bad way- metal's sticking into her stomach- but she's alive. The others?"

"F-F-Feuilly..." he points towards the red-headed corpse. "J-Joly's alive. Bahorel's alive."

"Bossuet? J-Jehan?" a whisper is heard from the other car; Combeferre.

He's in a rough state; head covered in congealing blood; unable to speak without a desperate raspy choke in between; struggling to stay conscious for even a minute.

"C-come on, stay with me..." Jehan begs. "Y-you're alright, Comb-... F-ferre."

"Pr-Prouvaire?"

"Think o-of..." his memory has been robbed from him. "Marius and C-Cosette's engagement. The M-Musain... Enjolras... Think of E-Enjolras... What would he do without you?"

It's no use; seconds and he's unconscious. Bossuet's gone; away to find someone or run home and alert Musichetta. Jehan seeks solace in the coherency of Bahorel, but it's no comfort.

The sirens of ambulances and police cars seem to come quickly, and before he can even understand it all, Jehan's ushered towards one of the ambulances and wrapped in a foil blanket. He shakily watches them get to work on taking the tops of cars and trying to free those trapped by the wreckage.

Combeferre is pulled out first, the bright orange neck brace a stark contrast with the translucent tone of his skin. At least he's alive, although even with the oxygen mask placed over his face his breathing looks laboured. Eponine is next, the wound on her stomach so large that Jehan can't even look at it. Cosette manages to get out too, and joins Jehan at his side.

"Thank god s-someone's okay," she whispers gently, allowing Jehan to rest his head on her shoulder. "I saw Bahorel talking too. He's okay. and Bossuet."

Joly next, sobbing desperately and pleading with them not to move him; but the paramedics know what they are doing and get him on a stretcher before his protests can cause any disruption. And then Grantaire, almost smiling with relief as he's piled into an ambulance.

And then Courfeyrac; _he's alive. _His head seems bashed up, and other than the rise and fall of his chest you would assume he was but a corpse.

Bahorel joins Cosette and Prouvaire, his nose dripping with blood but otherwise unscathed. Jehan suddenly rises up, the silvery blanket dropping from his shoulders as a cough splatters his mouth with blood.

"I-I don't f-feel well..." he chokes out desperately.


	8. Cerebral

The paramedic nearby mumbles something about 'just in shock', but Jehan is hardly even aware that they've spoken. A splutter sends a viscous red liquid down his chin, staining his white shirt in the process. All Bahorel and Cosette can do is watch as the paramedic catches him as he falls to the ground, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. It all happens too quickly; the oozing of blood; the tenseness of his muscles; the jarring of his limbs.

The paramedic moves out the way as he begins to seize, doing his best to ensure that Jehan doesn't injure himself as his muscles convulse. Bahorel-who hasn't cried since he was a teenager- is in floods of tears as he watches his friend lose control of his body.

"Tonic-clonic seizure!" he calls out as Jehan's body finally seems to stop moving, other paramedics rushing over to help.

It's surprising that the medical professionals hadn't noticed; the nausea; his confused state; his dilated pupils; his deteriorating level of consciousness. They obviously had no way of telling that he was struggling to hear and see and think, but it still should have been obvious that he'd sustained a brain injury, yet with all the fuss they'd passed off the most obvious of his symptoms as stress, because it does make sense; he had been the first one to explore the scene, and he had been the one who'd watched Feuilly die. And of course, there had been more obvious casualties; they were unsure whether Courfeyrac was even alive; Joly risks paralysis; Combeferre was showing more obvious signs of a brain injury; Eponine would have died had she not been removed from the car as fast as she was.

"Was he showing any signs of a brain injury?" one of the paramedics asks Bahorel. "Confusion, nausea, aphasia?"

"Aphasa-what?"

"Difficulty speaking," she sighs gently.

"He was stuttering. I just thought he was scared," Bahorel takes a breath to calm himself. "It was as if he couldn't find the right words."

"And you're okay? You're not experiencing any trouble hearing, seeing, finding words? Things like that may have gone unnoticed when he was given the once over to see if he was alright. We'd rather this sort of thing doesn't happen."

"I'm fine."

"He's seizing again!" and that's it; Bahorel bursts into tears again, shoving his head into Cosette's shoulder until his body is empty of any more sobs. "He's not responding."

Seconds pass; some of the medical professionals are silent, others buzzing loudly around the paling body.

"911, confirmed," is all Bahorel can hear.

"What? What is it?" his eyes shoot up.

"I'm sorry; he's dead."

Bahorel doesn't have any tears left. The policewoman who broke the news to him tells him that the ambulance will be taking himself and Cosette to the hospital to be checked over properly. Neither are aware of how their friends are; worry takes over their systems as the medical technicians get them ready for the journey.

"Rough day, hmm?" the gentle voice of the woman checking out Bahorel's nose asks the pair of them. "I'm really sorry for your losses."

"Could I maybe make a couple of calls?" Bahorel asks as she turns to check out the grazes on Cosette's face. "Our friend ran back to tell our friends who weren't in the cars, but I should probably phone parents and things."

"Do you think Bossuet will alert Marius?" Cosette sighs.

"Of course he will. He'll go to Musichetta first, then they'll probably split to go and tell Enjolras and Marius."

...

Bahorel predicts correctly; Bossuet rushes home, practically diving through the door without an explanation and sobbing as they bundle into her car. The explanation is rushed and rambled, but soon they're driving to the street on which both Marius and Enjolras live and running in opposite directions. Bossuet has of course managed to mop up the bit of blood from the bump on his head, so he doesn't look too scary to the neighbours passing by.

"Open the bloody door, Enjolras!" he screams out in defeat, after almost a minute of battering the door with his fist. "Enjolras please!"

"W-what?" he finally appears at the door, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Bossuet, did nobody tell you I had a migraine-"

"Enjolras..." Bossuet finally lets himself go, allowing the fear to blend into his voice.

"What happened to your head?"

"There was an accident, Enjolras. I-I'm fine, but I have no idea about the others. I just ran to make sure you, Marius and Musichetta knew."

"How bad was it?"

"Bad. Now come on, we're going up to the hospital to see."

By the time Bossuet practically drags a still drowsy looking Enjolras to the car, Marius and Musichetta are already inside. She practically breaks the speed limit with how fast she is driving, but she honestly couldn't care less. Enjolras isn't sure how to feel; the migraine is still in full swing, so he can't really make a full observation of the situation. He's shaky on his feet as the understanding receptionist leads them to a waiting room and tells them 'they'll find them when they have news', but once he's sitting on one of the not very comfy blue chairs he feels a little less dizzy.

"I-I... I think Feuilly is dead," Bossuet admits, still cradled underneath Musichetta's arm. "Jehan said something about it, but he wasn't making a whole lot of sense. He was in shock."

"Was anybody badly injured?" Marius looks up.

"Jehan was alright. And Bahorel. Cosette was okay; she couldn't get out until the paramedics came because it was too crushed but she wasn't hurt really. Um... Joly's alive. Eponine's badly hurt but I reckon she'll be okay... I don't even know."

"Leave the questions, eh?" Musichetta strokes Bossuet's shoulder. "You should get checked out, just in case."

"I'm okay. I promise. I was conscious through all of it."

The four heads turn in unison as the door creaks open, staring directly at the receptionist as she leads through two people; Cosette and Bahorel. Bahorel runs straight towards Enjolras-who is the closest to the door- and shoves his arms around his waist. He's shaking, which is so unlike Bahorel, and it takes everything Enjolras has not to let the tears spill. He seems to be okay; there's a dressing over his nose and a couple of stitches on a wound on his leg, but the damage seems to be far more on the psychological side.

Cosette clutches Marius' hand, telling him over and over again that she is fine and that all of her injuries are superficial, and that he should be more worried about Eponine considering she's got worse injuries. Strong minded, she doesn't seem too shaken up by the crash; she's already phoned her father and makes him aware that she is alive and well.

"Jean Prouvaire," Bahorel muffles into Enjolras' neck. "He's... He..."

"He was okay though," Bossuet's eyes shoot up. "He was alive!"


	9. Grievance

**Woo for Cosette and Enjolras friendship:)**

The mood in the waiting room doesn't change; if anything, the melancholy just creeps further and further into their hearts. Cosette-despite the awful day she has had- seems to be in the highest spirits of them all. Marius has resorted to a morose state, yet her unwavering optimism manages to at least suppress a bit of the culminating sadness. Musichetta and Bossuet speak quietly; she knows he's shaken up, yet talking is somehow helping. Bahorel and Enjolras just sit in silence, as if communicating their anxieties without being vocal.

They're fully aware that it's going to be a long night, yet it doesn't stop the anticipation every time there's a noise out the door. Enjolras' eyes fixate on the door handle, desperate for it to click open and for a doctor to come through and tell him that all of his friends are alive and well. He knows it's childish and he knows it's naive, but he can't help it; he doesn't think he can handle losing any of them.

He _can't _handle losing any of them. He'd only known Jean Prouvaire through Courfeyrac, yet Jehan had become fast friends with everyone. And Feuilly had been a close friend for a while; he can't even begin to fathom a meeting without his presence. And now, with two of his closest friends being among the worst injured, his boyfriend with a mess of a leg and other injured friends all he's going to face is more pain.

"Enjolras..." Cosette wanders over, taking the seat in between Enjolras and Bahorel. "We'll find out soon."

"Sorry..." he chokes out an awkward laugh.

"How are you feeling?"

"Me? I-I'm fine."

"Enjolras, I was told you were practically catatonic this morning."

"Don't worry about me-"

"Excuse me?" the receptionist's head suddenly pops through the door, leading through a group of doctors(or at least that's what they are assumed to be).

"We have news about some of your friends," one states simply. "First, can you remember what your friend Combeferre was wearing?"

"Eh, blue shirt?" Enjolras' eyes widen in shock. "Brown hair, glasses?"

"I'm so very sorry, but Combeferre-"

"No."

"Sir-"

"No!"

And that's it; Enjolras turns from stoic to a sobbing mess in a matter of seconds. It's so unlike him; emotion isn't part of his vocabulary. But this is Combeferre; the man who is literally the reason Enjolras is still today. Without Combeferre, Enjolras would have drove himself insane with the amount of pressure he puts himself under; he would have let colds turn into flu and flu turn into pneumonia; he would have run himself ragged. He was the rock on which Enjolras relied upon; the voice of reason he could turn to; the only one who could see behind the stubborn blond's composed façade.

"Enjolras..." Bahorel's voice-strangely gentle as opposed to his usual gruff guffaw- whispers in his ear.

"Combeferre can't be..."

"He was very badly injured, Enjolras," the doctor explains gently. "Was he to survive, he would only be suffering."

"What about any of our other friends? Courfeyrac?" Marius suggests, biting his lip anxiously.

"Courfeyrac, I'm afraid, is very poorly," one of the women explains. "He's suffered a severe head trauma, the specifics of which we are investigating currently. It's touch and go from here, but he's stable for the moment."

"Thank you," Enjolras smiles gently, tears still rolling down his face; this news may not be great, but it's better than he was expecting.

One explains that Eponine's injuries aren't as bad as first thought; stitches and rest will leave her as good as new. Marius follows the doctor to go and see her, but Cosette tells him that she wants to make sure Enjolras is alright first.

Joly's future seems uncertain; although well enough for them to be sure he'll live, there's a chance he may never walk again. The news is all too sobering for Musichetta and Bossuet, who clutch hands and sigh as they are led to go and see him.

Another goes on to explain that Grantaire's leg is broken in three places, and that he'll need an operation to fix it and put it back into place, but otherwise he is fine. Enjolras feels slightly better, but very little can quench his pain over the news that Combeferre isn't with him any more. Drained, he resigns to curling up beside Cosette who gently strokes his hair and tries to tell him that everything will be okay. He knows he should probably go and see Grantaire or Courfeyrac, but he is fully aware that as soon as he sees either of them lying on a hospital bed he'll break into histrionics again.

He doesn't fully understand why he's like this all of a sudden; he's not the crying kind of guy. It's as if everything that has accumulated over the years has finally spilled out, leaving him as a snivelling mess.

"I'm not usually like this," he sighs.

"We've all had a rough day; none of us are ourselves," she clutches his hand. "Why don't we go and see Grantaire, hmm? It might take your mind off of things?"

He nods sheepishly; he's glad she suggested Grantaire, as Courfeyrac's injuries seem far too serious for him to be dealing with right now. He tries to protest and tell Cosette to go and see Eponine with Marius, but she explains that she doesn't mind and that she'd rather keep an eye on him if that was okay. He doesn't have the energy to go on, so he allows her to devote her presence to him.

Grantaire is sleeping by the time they sneak into the A and E room(with all the commotion of the past hour and a half, they're still struggling to find beds), his leg still waiting to be put into plaster before the following day's operation. Enjolras had been hoping Grantaire would have seemed okay, but his sleeping state reminds him all too deeply of unconsciousness, and he can't get images of his lifeless friends out of his mind; Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre.

"It's just the morphine," the nurse explains quietly. "It's best for him to have a little sleep; it's been a rough day."

"T-thank you," Enjolras manages a little smile.

"I'm truly sorry about what happened."

"T-t-thank you."

"Would you like me to go and get a pitcher of water? You don't look too well, sir."

"Yes please," Cosette answers for him as his nervous grip on her hand tightens. "Enjolras, come on."

"M'sorry..."


	10. Comatose

**This will be the last Enjolras centric chapter for a few chapters I promise; onto Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet for the next few. I considered Courfeyrac to probably be in the worst state, so it made the most sense to focus on him first.**

Just as Enjolras begins to calm down, Bahorel's head pops through the hospital curtain. He smiles half-heartedly, whispering to Cosette that Marius would like to speak to her. She nods, quickly asking him if he's okay to which he replies with a hesitant nod.

"Courfeyrac's parents just arrived," Bahorel sighs. "They were asking for you."

"I... Grantaire will be alone though," he mumbles quietly.

"I'll sit here with him. And Combeferre's parents are on their way; I um..."

"Thank you," he smiles gently, patting Bahorel on the shoulder as he wanders out.

It takes him a minute to prepare himself before he enters Courfeyrac's room; he inhales deeply, his hand twitching for the door handle. It's at this moment when he realises how bad his hands are shaking, and he has to brace himself again to push open the door. He can feel the nausea rising in his oesophagus, his stomach feeling like it's been tangled into knots. Slowly, he extends his arm, his fingertips brushing gently against the wood. A step forward, and the door is open wide enough for him to see Courfeyrac lying there.

He's frozen still, barely even through the door yet. He'd been told Courfeyrac was in a comatose state, but the knowledge did nothing to prepare him for the sight of his friend looking so lifeless. Various breathing apparatuses protrude from his mouth; intravenous drips attached to his arm; his head wrapped up in blood stained bandages.

"Enjolras," he hears the gentle tone of Mr Courfeyrac, his friend's father.

He walks further into the room, his lips still pressed together in silence. He's known Courfeyrac's family almost all of his life; they'd grown up together. Courfeyrac's father isn't much like his son; he's more serious, but once you get to know him he's one of the nicest people you would ever meet. Courfeyrac's mother is a lot more like him; cheery, optimistic and unyieldingly caring.

"It looks a lot worse than it actually is," his mother smiles. "He'll be going for surgery in a moment; they've been running scans and with the kind of injury it is-I'm not too good with all these fancy medical names-as long as they operate soon, the prognosis shall be good. And the doctors have said they're going to be very loose about enforcing visiting hours for the moment, which is great."

"The doctor said... coma?" Enjolras can hardly get his words out.

"It's often the body's response to a traumatic injury such as the ones your friend has sustained," the on call nurse explains. "His brain injury is moderate, and the doctor does not think it's fully responsible for his comatose state. He should wake up within a day or so. Complications may arise once he's conscious however; aphasia, apraxia, amnesia."

"That's something we can cope with later on," Courfeyrac's mother reaches out, sensing that Enjolras looks a little anxious.

"H-have Combeferre's parents arrived yet?" he manages to whisper.

"They're on their way now," Courfeyrac's dad nods. "They'll be in the building; there's probably a lot of legal stuff to do concerning this..."

"I'm sorry about... everything that's happened," it isn't much of a consolation, but it's all Enjolras can offer at the moment.

"No," Courfeyrac's mum shakes her head, standing up to hug the man. "It's been a rough day for all of us; you've lost three people who were dear to you and several others are in hospital. And you look a wreck; are you alright, pet?"

"I wish everyone would stop treating me like this; I feel awful that people are worrying about me when Combeferre is dead, and Jehan is dead and Feuilly is dead-"

"We need you to be able to help here; and you can't do that if you're not okay,son."

Courfeyrac's operation seems to go by quickly; Enjolras isn't sure how he occupies himself while waiting. Combeferre's parents join them in the waiting room for a while; all half-hearted smiles and held back tears before they head back home to start the grieving process. He misses them; they used to be like second parents when he and Combeferre were younger, but somehow they started to drift away as Combeferre drifted apart from them too. This meeting is rushed -almost even awkward- and although most of the strange feelings could be coined to grief, things have been like this for a while with them. It's not that they're bad people; they're really nice. It's just a matter of a lack of contact resulting in a growing distance between people.

Courfeyrac's parents however, are a different story. Like himself, his family are warm and make sure to keep in contact. They were also like a second set as parents, and now he's probably even closer to them than he is with his own set. When they'd moved in to their new student flat(which Enjolras is without a doubt going to struggle to return to), they both came and helped put stuff away and move in beds, and he knows that if he needs anything at all, he can just call them.

He's less explosive now; the migraine is finally beginning to fade and he's beginning to regain control of his emotions. Calmer, he smiles whole-heartedly when the doctor tells them that Courfeyrac is beginning to display motor responses a few hours later. It's another hour before he can be considered awake, and he's struggling with his words; but he's alive, and that's all Enjolras and Courfeyrac's family could ask for.

"Happened?" is all he says, but they understand what he means.

"There was an accident," Enjolras whispers calmly. "You're alright, but it's going to take you a while to get back on your feet."

"Hurts..."

"I know, honey," his mother lulls gently. "You're drugged up on painkillers, so they'll tale the edge of the pain away."

"Ferre?"

Nobody replies. They can't break it to him just yet; he's too unstable and getting upset may just cause him to move too quickly and hurt himself. He feels strange; like he doesn't quite have control of his body. He tries desperately to speak, but words just don't seem to come. It's like their meanings claw at his throat, trying to escape but unable to climb their way onto the tip of his tongue.

And it's terrifying.


	11. Right To Remain Silent

The news hits Bossuet and Musichetta like a ton of bricks; Joly may never walk again. It's early days; weeks of medical care and physiotherapy await before he's even in a wheelchair, and that's not including the 'counselling' the doctor tells them about. The doctor tells him he's 'lucky'; his injury is in the thoracic level which means only his lower half should be affected, not his arms and his breathing. Joly-if he was able to- is tempted to slap the man's face.

He certainly doesn't feel bloody lucky; his body can't decide if it's numb or in pain, leaving him uncomfortable and drugged up on morphine. Bossuet seems on edge; like he's about to burst into tears at any moment. Musichetta seems different too; like she's only keeping it together because Joly's still attempting to smile. It's difficult however; he's been made aware of his friend's fatalities, and he's struggling to keep it together. He and Combeferre had been close; they were both studying medicine at the same university, and had many a time studied together. He hadn't known Jean Prouvaire too well, but Feuilly's death hits him a little harder. They'd been good friends; drinking together, joking around, just having fun in general.

He's not sure whether it's the morphine or just guilt, but by the time Bossuet has fallen asleep in the uncomfortable little hospital chair, his eyes finally let the salty tears flow. Musichetta sighs, clutching his hand a little tighter. He looks absolutely downtrodden; the bandages; the unyielding position; the contortion of his face with pain; the soaked cheeks.

Joly eventually calms down. Unlike many of his other friends, Joly's parents won't be making an appearance. Possibly the root of his hypochondriac tendencies, his dad had died of lung cancer when he was just starting university, and his mother two years later after contracting pneumonia following a seemingly routine operation. He misses them, but his grief seems to fester in his worries about his health; the thick crackle in his mother's chest still plagues him.

He-despite his family history- doesn't mind hospitals; they're a bit like a safe haven for him. A place of healing; rest; recuperation. And they're clean; he's not afraid of germs at all, but there's something comforting about the thick smell of bleach coating the bright white tiles. His friends would laugh, telling him he's in the right place because there won't be any germs; but that's not what he's afraid of. Illness may terrify him, yet he strangely doesn't mind much about the possibility that viruses or bacterium may be resting upon a surface he may touch. He is however, pretty emetephobic. God forbid if he ends up feeling nauseous during his stay in hospital; he'll over exaggerate; working himself up because he's terrified of actually throwing up; making it into something much bigger than it actually is.

But he doesn't feel too safe right this moment. Unlike Bossuet and Musichetta, he can understand all of the doctors' lingo. He listens to each word, his ears pricked up like a dogs, wincing at each term that doesn't bode well with him. They run regular checks on his vitals, and breaths a sigh of relief when they nod and tell him they're normal.

He's finally able to process what had happened. He remembers being in the car, sobbing fervently and almost having a panic attack whenever something threatened to move him. He can still remember clearly that tingle he still felt in his legs; that twitching of the muscles begging for him to move them. That sensation is gone; replaced with an indescribable numbness that he can't seem to grasp.

The busy A and E department is the next thing he can remember; he must have slept in the ambulance(or was perhaps sedated). It being a Saturday night, the whole department was chock-a-block; children with fevers and burns and injuries; elderly people having falls; drunk people unconscious or rowdy. The trauma had been a priority case; upon the call being made, they ensured that beds were available; thus meaning injuries like broken arms taking a while to be seen to, people being treated in the waiting room, a shortage of doctors. He feels almost guilty, imagining the number of people who had to wait to be seen because a doctor was too busy prodding his back and asking if it hurt(the answer to which was '_what do you bloody think?')._

And now, he feels even worse that he's taking up a bed in intensive care. He feels almost silly for thinking it, but it's something he cannot suppress.

In a less scarily named ward and in the company of several other people with broken bones, Grantaire can be found. Bahorel is still sitting by his side, doing his best to laugh and joke with his friend but still a little subdued over the situation. He's waiting to be taken for his operation which has been delayed for a few hours.

The sight of the top of a black hat silences the pair of them, Grantaire failing to sit himself up to see what's happening. It all happens in a matter of seconds.

"I am arresting you on the suspicion of death by dangerous driving. You have the right to remain silent, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Bahorel almost loses it. He's a step away from grabbing the lamp and chucking it in the direction of the policeman, but he knows he'd just be digging himself a bigger hole.

Grantaire remains silent. As long as he tells the truth, he'll be fine. The court date should be a while away; Grantaire still has his operation to go, and he'll take a while to recover from that too. Bahorel is being taken for questioning in a moment, and although the policemen are being considerate and gentle with the strangely fragile man, he can't help but feel an intense hatred for them.

He didn't want this to happen. It had all just happened so quickly. He wasn't breaking any laws; he had the give way, and he wasn't actually breaking the speed limit. He's almost sobbing as he insists this, and thankfully the evidence of the impact seems to prove these facts. They let him go; he hasn't been charged with anything yet. He practically dashes back to the hospital, struggling to hide the tears as he climbs out of the taxi.

Grantaire's already been taken to the theatre when he arrives back, but Bahorel manages to occupy himself by speaking with his friends over the phone. Courfeyrac is a bit better; not well at all, but better. Joly's alright all things considered. Eponine's actually fine; the injury is painful, but not life-threatening as they managed to get the metal off of her in time.

It will be a tough week, but things seem to be on the up. In times like this, optimism is the one thing left to rely on. They can't dwell on the fact that some of their friends are gone; they have to hold on to the ones that are still here.


	12. Revelation

For the next few days, Enjolras remains vigil by Courfeyrac's bedside. Both of his parents struggled to get more than a day or two off work, so their presence is reserved for only the visiting hours between 6 and 7 in the evening. They trust Enjolras enough to know that he'll call him if there are any regressions, and besides, they're fully aware of the trust their son has in the man.

The news of his friends' deaths still hasn't been broken to him. He's still not well at all; sleeping for most of the day, and almost silent during the rare occasions he is awake. Words are coming a little easier; still slow and staggered, but at least he's managing to find the right words now. It upset his family and friends greatly when just two days prior, he attempted to say one thing, but it came out as something vaguely different. More attempts had failed, leaving him panicky and upset to the point where Enjolras had to sit and wipe away his tears until he calmed down.

On this particular day, he seems much better. He's awake for much longer period of time, and they even manage to get him to sit up a little. A speech and language pathologist is scheduled to assess him, but it seems that his aphasia has almost completely worn off. It seems like an almost overnight improvement; yesterday he'd been mumbling one word responses, and now he's managing whole sentences. Enjolras is almost beaming with pride; after four days of nothing but pain and grief, Courfeyrac's vast improvement is all he can ask for.

The group of friends haven't seen much of each other; it seems that everyone has stuck to their respective places in the hospital. Bahorel has barely strayed from Grantaire's side; especially since Grantaire took a bit of a reaction to the anaesthetic, and isn't as well as he would have hoped. Bossuet and Musichetta have stayed with Joly of course. Eponine will be released at the end of the week, but Marius and Cosette have visited religiously each day. Enjolras almost feels bad about not seeing any of the others, but he's aware that he can't exactly leave Courfeyrac alone in case he wakes up to no one there except the nurses. The system seems to work, so he doesn't see any point in changing it.

But it's draining, having to sit and deal with a Courfeyrac that isn't really the Courfeyrac he knows and loves. And the unspoken news of his friends' death still doesn't pass his lips, despite the fact he can feel it tearing away at his vocal chords.

"Enjolras?" Courfeyrac mumbles, still a little anxious in his approach to speaking. "H-have they said much about what my actual injury is?"

"Fractured wrist, 2 broken ribs, and well you obviously had a traumatic brain injury; something about a subdural hematoma? I'm not good with all this medical talk. You know they've been running a couple of neurological tests; apart from the difficulty speaking, there doesn't seem to be many signs of any big complications."

However, Enjolras isn't so sure of this fact. Courfeyrac just doesn't seem the same; it's as if something is missing from his personality, but he can't exactly place what. He seems anxious; alright, he isn't in the most nerve soothing situation, but it seems to be consuming him.

"E-Enjolras?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to the others?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't lie to me Enjolras."

"I haven't."

"Combeferre is dead. And Jean Prouvaire. I'm not stupid."

"I'm sorry."

"I... I... F-Feuilly too."

"Hey," Courfeyrac sighs, feeling tears prick his eyes. "That was... How I said it was... harsh."

The pair sit in silence. Courfeyrac is properly crying now, the tears stinging the cuts and grazes on his cheeks. Enjolras tries to keep it together, but one look Courfeyrac's tear stained face sets him off too. Courfeyrac-slightly immobile and stiff- does his best to move closer towards his friend, who in turn leans over to wrap his arms around him.

The injured man reaches up his arm, hooking it around Enjolras' neck and sobs desperately. He clings onto Enjolras, as if over the fear that death may take him too. His hand curls up, clinging to the hood of his friend's jacket, almost refusing to let go. Even when Enjolras pulls away, his fingers still clutch onto his friend's hand.

He can't imagine what life is going to be like without Combeferre. He'd been the one who kept him out of trouble; he'd calmly broken the truth to some of his more overzealous lovers; he was the reason he hadn't gone down the same path as Bahorel and skipped out on lectures; he had sat up with him when he was sobbing his little heart out over Jean Prouvaire. He, Combeferre and Enjolras had grown up together; they had been inseparable.

He struggles to even think about Jean Prouvaire. He remembers what he did to him; he'd tried to deny it, yet he knew fine well that he'd broken Jehan's heart. All over the fact that he was too scared to admit. Maybe it's just the painkillers and the brain injury, but the remorse he feels is unbearable. He wants nothing more than to be able to reconcile those severed links; to be able to tell Prouvaire that he had been stupid and that he wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to see his face again, but that he's in love with him and he just didn't no how to handle it. But he can't. Jean Prouvaire is gone.

And Feuilly; the sudden news of his death-the one death he hadn't caught on to- leaves a sick feeling in his stomach. Feuilly was one of the kindest of them all, and many a time he'd been a crutch on which Courfeyrac had relied on. Whether had been helping him get home when he'd drank a little too much, or just having somebody to talk to, he knew Feuilly could always be relied on. And of course, there was the great admiration that all of the men shared for the man. Resilient and hard working, it was an almighty shame that he'd drew the short straw in life. Orphaned when he was young, Feuilly grew up without a stable family background. Poor his whole life, he worked hard to be able to afford just the basics. They were amazed at how hard-working the man was.

"Courfeyrac..." Enjolras whispers gently, his voice still choking with tears.

"I just miss them so much. W-what about the others?"

"Everyone's fine... Well, Joly's paralysed and a few of the others are a little battered and bruised but they're alive."

Courfeyrac sighs heavily, closing his eyes to try and calm himself.

"How about you try and get some sleep, eh? You're looking a little pale."

He nods, falling asleep almost instantly. Enjolras takes a shaky breath, feeling the sobs in his chest constrict his throat. Before he knows it, he's practically weeping. He has to run a hand through his hair to steady himself, unable to control the wails escaping his mouth. He gets up, standing by the door to try and calm himself down without waking Courfeyrac up; but it's pointless. The sobs keep coming, robbing him of breaths as his body shakes terribly.


	13. Hearts Beating

_**I should mention there's a mix for this: 8tracks(dot com)/ barricadeboyzz / col-li-sion (take away the spaces) thanks to thecoloursoftheworld:) Take it as chapter by chapter as each song kind of alludes to that chapter/the mood of the chapter.**_

* * *

Just as he's wiping his eyes and snotty nose on the sleeve of his hoodie, the worst of the crying fit having passed, Bahorel's head pops through the door. A silent nod is exchanged between the pair, and Bahorel doesn't mention the obvious fact that Enjolras has been crying. Instead, he moves further into the room and smiles.

"Are you alright?" he speaks subtly.

"Y-yeah," he sniffs heavily, the lump still residing in his throat.

"You've been here for days, Enjolras. You should go and have a rest."

"I can't leave Courfeyrac alone-"

"I'm here. At least go see Grantaire instead. He's less of a handful."

"S-sorry," Enjolras sighs. "What time is it, by the way?"

"Half one. Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

Enjolras nods. Of course that's what he's thinking; he's going to try and make his afternoon lecture. As silly as it seems, he knows its the one distraction that will actually work. While Bahorel or any of the others would be happy collapsing onto a bed and trying to sleep away their grief, Enjolras' way of coping with most things is to put his head down and focus on his work. An unhealthy method maybe, but it's one that works.

Bahorel doesn't question it. He understands Enjolras' strange coping mechanism, even if it does seem a little foreign to him. Distraction may help; in fact, the prospect of being able to sit for an hour or two and focus on something other than all of this drama is beginning to sound attractive to even him. Enjolras takes a minute to stand up from the little plastic chair, taking one last glance at Courfeyrac before he runs a hand through his hair and walks out of the door.

He looks a little downtrodden as he waits for a taxi after picking up his things from his apartment, but he's never been one two care about his looks. It takes just his hands coming through his hair a couple of time to sort it out, and his fringe seems to hide the puffy darkness of his eyes well enough. He reaches the lecture hall a couple minutes early; just enough time for him to start having doubts. Thoughts of his friends run through his mind as he waits for the lecturer; he can't shake the feeling that Courfeyrac may take a turn for the worse whilst he's away.

He's thankfully pulled from his thoughts before his mind drifts towards Feuilly, Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre when his lecturer appears behind him, followed by a group of his fellow pupils.

"I wasn't expecting you back just yet," the lecturer sighs sympathetically.

"Needed a distraction," Enjolras smiles gently.

"How is Courfeyrac?"

"Better today, actually."

"That's good to hear."

But by the time he gets into the lecture hall, it finally hits him. The growing space beside him where Courfeyrac should be sitting makes the thoughts running through his head so much worse, to the point where he's practically having an internal panic attack at the back of the hall. He sighs, all too quickly reminded of the sight of his friend just days ago; he looked as if he was dead.

_Dead. _That's what Combeferre and Feuilly and Jean Prouvaire are. He can feel his breath hitching in his throat, and he's pretty sure that the scrawls he's writing in his notebook contain none of the contents of what his lecturer is saying. He can hear his heart beating in his chest; a sound which just doesn't help. _Their hearts should be beating. _Another run of his hand through his greasy hair reveals a little too much; the beginnings of stubble on his chin, his red puffy eyes, the chapped almost bleeding lips. He can feel his contact lenses itching in his eyes, and notes that he should probably switch to his glasses for a few days.

Sighing, he quietly dismisses himself a whole half an hour before the lecture is over. He feels surrounded, yet deprived of company at the same time; it's a feeling he can't really place. Pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder, he quickly slips past another student and towards the door at the front of the lecture hall. The lecturer halts, giving a courteous nod towards his student before carrying on with his discussion.

Enjolras hesitates before the door handle, just like he had done before entering to see Courfeyrac a week ago. He pictures his friend surrounded with all those tubes and wires and drips and monitors and as irrational as it is, he can't help but feel as if that by opening this door he's opening himself towards the prospect of that scene returning. He clasps his hand around the handle timidly, feeling the cold metal against his palm. He knows fine well that all of his friends are getting better. The creek of the door as he eases it open makes him feel sick, but as soon as he sees the hall of the university, his breathing calms and he laughs nervously at his irrationality.

But the thought is still there as he wanders back into the hospital. He seeks refuge on Grantaire's ward. Not critically injured, he's spent all of his time in a ward surrounded by other people. Enjolras had seen him in passing every day since the accident, yet he'd been so understandably concerned about Courfeyrac that he'd not had a chance to properly spend time with him.

He looks alright, thankfully. His hair's a little messy and he's unshaven, but he doesn't look too bad. Upon closer inspection, his cheeks have a slight tinge of fever; Bahorel had mentioned that he wasn't too well after his operation. However, he seems to be in good enough health.

"So when are you getting out?" Enjolras asks gently, resting his hand against Grantaire's.

"Next week, hopefully," he smiles. "I had quite the temperature after surgery, but it's down today."

"Can you feel any pain in your leg?"

"Nothing. It's all the good meds; I can't feel _anything. _It's just itchy underneath the cast. How's Courf?"

"He's okay today; I mean... he's far from better but he's getting there."

"Enjolras?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It was an accident."

"Just... sorry."

Enjolras' phone buzzes in his pocket, and it takes him a while to pull it out to read the text. He doesn't want to face the fact that maybe everything isn't okay. His nerves calm when he finally sees the text on the screen; Courfeyrac is being moved to a less supervised ward. This is a good sign, he notes and he smiles as he tells Grantaire.

"Go and see him," he grins, kissing him on the cheek.

Enjolras is grinning ear to ear when he sees his friend, now sitting up and seeming more like his usual self. Bahorel quickly dismisses himself as Enjolras enters the room and Courfeyrac smiles over in his direction. It's a far cry from their crying fit that morning, and both of them are thankful for it; it seems as if everything is going to be okay. They're not going to lose anyone else; they _can't._

"Feeling better?" Enjolras asks.

"Yeah!" he says enthusiastically. "Finally been given some solid food; don't think I've missed anything so much in my life!"

"So did they say when you'll be out?"

"A couple of weeks yet; but I'm improving really quick."

"I'm proud of you, Courf."

"Oh, god don't call me that or I'll start calling you Enjy."

"I'm glad you're better."

"Are you okay?"

"Honestly? Not really; but I will be. Everything's just a little crazy right now. Once everyone's home it will even out."


	14. Friend Chicken

It does begin to even out after a while. Eponine gets out of hospital first after just a couple of days; Cosette and Marius insist on letting her stay with them until she's better, and it's an offer she doesn't pass up. She's jealous of Cosette of course, but she's been nothing but kind over the past week and there's no reason for bad feelings. So she puts up with it as Cosette helps her out of the car to make sure her stitches don't pull apart.

As much as the accident has built connections between the group of friends, that's not to say it hasn't severed at least a few of them. Marius, Eponine and Cosette have hardly talked to the others; in Eponine's release from hospital, it seems as if all of their problems have been solved. Marius, of course, is worried about Courfeyrac as they had once been close friends, but he doesn't make the effort to go and see him(or perhaps, he's too nervous to see Courfeyrac looking unwell). It's nothing new; they weren't exactly considered as close as the others, but still you'd have expected them to make a few visits.

It's not so much that they don't care; it's just the hospital environment isn't exactly the healthiest, and Cosette and Marius are quick to get back to everyday life. So Cosette heads to university to study psychology, and Marius continues with his law degree and Eponine recovers with a pile of television season boxsets. There's not so much spite towards them; the others understand that they want to keep themselves to themselves, particularly when times are a bit tough.

Grantaire's next to be released; Enjolras offers a bed at their apartment, to which he happily accepts despite initially insisting he could hobble about his own. It's nice to have Grantaire to go home to when he leaves the hospital; it's almost like a bit of normality. He does spend most of his time at the hospital however; both because Courfeyrac still has another few weeks there to go, and because the absence of Combeferre becomes all too apparent.

The funerals won't be for a few weeks; the families all agreed to wait until their close friends were out of the hospital. It's getting closer though; Joly's released a couple of weeks later, the wheelchair being a little too much for some of his friends to cope with. He's in good enough spirits, but it's difficult not to miss the spring in his step and the wide grin on his face.

Just a week later, and Courfeyrac joins them; two whole weeks ahead of schedule. He's still weak, and passes on the offers of a celebratory party; something which Enjolras can't help but feel like crying over, considering Courfeyrac used to live for parties. He seems to have been lucky though; so far, there's no sign of any problems, and he's recovering a little each day. He's far from being able to go back to university and assume his everyday life, but he's well enough to be home and that's all he can ask for.

"Oi, the doctors said you still need to rest," Enjolras sighs, watching as Courfeyrac doesn't head straight to bed once he arrives home from the hospital.

"We do own a couch, Enjolras," he sticks out his tongue playfully. "Come on, you've got nothing to do today. Come watch a film with me-"

"I was going to-"

"Please?"

"Enjolras?" Courfeyrac asks at a particularly boring part of the film. "When are the funerals?"

"Friday," he eventually manages to say.

Just as the topic begins to turn sour, the sound of the doorbell breaks the silence. Enjolras reckognizes the faces through the door and calls them in; Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Marius, Cosette and Eponine walk in. At the sound of the fuss, Grantaire limps through on his crutches. Enjolras- who had not seen Joly in his wheelchair until now- does his best to ignore it, embracing all of his friends with hugs.

"We thought seeing as Courfeyrac's too weak to come to the Musain, we'd bring the Musain to him," Bahorel grins, ruffling Courfeyrac's hair.

However, the good moods don't last long; the absence of their three friends creeps up on them all too quickly. Just as silence looms and tears begin to form in the corners of their eyes, Bahorel bounces up from the sofa, exclaiming that he's going to fetch them all some food. Enjolras- of course- manages to win the debate over what they're having; 'Courfeyrac's home, it's a special event, so we're having fried chicken' had been his victorious argument.

"Combeferre would be lecturing us all," Courfeyrac grins, his face contorted with a strange combination of happiness and sadness. "Except Enjolras; letting him have KFC is the only way to get him to eat semi-proper food."

"Remember that time where we literally had to sneak the empty bucket out to make sure he didn't catch us?" Joly interjects.

"And Feuilly had the brilliant idea of blaming it on me when he found it," a smile even begins to spread across Enjolras' face.

"Smart thinking, too; it wouldn't be unusual for you to finish the majority of a bucket yourself," Grantaire laughs.

"It didn't quite work though; he just walked up towards Jehan, and one look and he just broke into laughter," Bossuet shakes his head, trying to stop himself from laughing at the memory.

More anecdotes are shared as Bahorel returns. Grantaire recalls his in an elaborate fashion, what had been christened 'moth gate'. All was calm in the Musain one night, when Courfeyrac just screamed out of nowhere. Now, having heard the blood-curdling cry, you'd have assumed there was a bear or something, but no; sitting on the table, scraping its peppered wings together. With an enthusiastic wave of his arms, Grantaire demonstrates the moment where the moth flew straight towards Courfeyrac's face, landing on the tip of his nose. Imitating Courfeyrac, he curls up his mouth and squints his eyes into a face of terror. Almost automatically, he switches into Combeferre as he explains how he just calmly walked towards him, scooped the tiny little moth into his hands and let it fly out of the window.

"Don't ever bring that back up again," Courfeyrac insists, frowning.

Bahorel's recount of the time he and Feuilly tried to babysit Joly's nephew is equally as enthusiastic. Taking to the centre of the living room, he mimics how Feuilly-seeming to have taken a leaf out of Bossuet's book- tripped over the coffee table, almost sending the poor little baby flying across the room before he thankfully caught it just in time. Bahorel had returned from the other room, armed with nappies and a baby bottle to find Feuilly sobbing his little heart out clutching the little boy to his chest. The child was fine- smiling and waving to Bahorel- but Feuilly most definitely was not. A quick nappy change had set him in perspective; well, until he was covered head to toe in pee.

"Feu-wee," Joly grins, and the group erupts into laughter at his pun.

It's Courfeyrac who recalls a memory about Jean Prouvaire first; he's less upbeat than the other two, but he tells the story with the widest grin. Jean Prouvaire had just returned from food shopping, when the horrible little plastic bag snapped with the weight. Out rolled- of all things- a melon, which crashed straight onto his toe. Cursing loudly, he hopped over to the sofa and complained, prodding at his foot. When Courfeyrac asked him if he was alright, he had declared-ever the pun master- 'No, I am meloncholy'. They'd practically fallen onto the floor laughing, shaking their heads and holding their stomachs.

A night which could have easily turned sour, had turned out to be full of new memories. Courfeyrac grows tired much earlier than the others, and give them their dues, they go their separate ways for his sake. Although a little weak, he goes to bed with the biggest smile he's had on his face for weeks.


	15. Compulsivity

The day of the joint funeral- Enjolras knows- is not going to be an easy day. He's handed the task of getting Courfeyrac and Grantaire out of the house safe and sound, and as simple as a task it may seem, simple is most definitely something it won't be. Courfeyrac's been having good and bad days in his recovery; some days it's almost like he's back to his old self with his unyielding optimism and permanent smile, yet others when he is weaker, he's not only physically drained but mentally too.

Unfortunately, today is one of his bad days. He trudges through to the living room just hours before they'll need to head out announcing that he is ready; his black tie tied messily around his neck; his collar still up; his trousers still unzipped; his hair askew. If Enjolras hadn't noticed the dark circles underneath his friend's eyes and the pout of his lip, he would have laughed; but the sight of his friend so unlike himself dislodges something in his heart.

"Come here," he smiles gently, reaching over to fix his tie. "It'll be alright today, trust me."

"B-but..." he mumbles, tears forming in his eyes.

"I know, I know."

"I-I..."

"You don't have to come. You're still not well-"

"I have to. Their families delayed the funerals so I could be there. I can't just not go."

"I'll be there. If it's too much just tell me and we'll go sit somewhere quiet, okay?"

"I don't deserve a friend like you Enjolras-"

"No, No! Don't say things like that-"

"But-... But-..."

"Courfeyrac, will you be alright today?" he changes the subject quickly.

"I... I will be. If you're there."

"I won't leave your side."

This is a side of Enjolras that is not seen too often; you'd assume he was cold and dismissive towards his friends, yet that most definitely is not the case. In particular with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the compassion he is capable of is immense. To some of the others, it may seem uncharacteristic, but to Courfeyrac this Enjolras is the Enjolras he knows best; every word shared between the pair is laced with care and love and respect. To have lost both of his friends would have destroyed him; just losing one had left a gaping hole in his heart.

The struggle to get Grantaire out of the house is less about emotions, and more about literally managing to get him past the front door; he's not quite conquered using his crutches on stairs, so the trip to the car feels more like a descent down a mountain. One look at Courfeyrac once they're in the car, and his hand extends out to clutch it tightly. A whisper of 'it'll be okay' escapes his mouth, and Courfeyrac nods tearfully. Enjolras waits for a second before driving off; it is only the second time either of them have been in a car since the accident, yet it seems there's no lasting anxieties about being in one despite what had happened.

"Alright?" Enjolras sighs heavily, opening the car door for the pair once they're in the car park. "It's going to be fine."

"I can't," Courfeyrac sighs, leaning his back against the car and breathing heavily.

"I'm right here," his voice is gentle; unwavering; calm. "I promise."

But Enjolras isn't calm; on the inside he can feel panic building in his chest, as if his lungs are about to explode. His heart sinks as Courfeyrac breaks down, his breath breaking up with overwhelming anxiety. He breathes faster, his body beginning to shiver in terror. The doctors had said there should be no change to Courfeyrac following his brain injury, yet Enjolras can't help but notice Courfeyrac is a little tense.

Watching a little closer as Grantaire-far more equipped to be dealing with the likes of a panic attack than himself- tries to calm him down, he picks up on the compulsive tap of his fingers against the metal of the car. It's nothing, he tries to say; just a nervous twitch to try and channel the anxiety into something. But it's insistent; he tries to stop the movement, yet with just a few second his hand sets about the tapping again.

His breathing seems to have calmed, so Enjolras walks over slowly and allows Courfeyrac to bury his head into his shoulder. Breaking away, he clutches his hand tightly and ruffles his hair with his other hand. The tapping stops.

"I'm here, Courfeyrac," Enjolras pulls him back into his arms, cupping his hand carefully on the back of Courfeyrac's head. "I am right here. If you want to leave just tell me and we'll go, alright? You're not being forced to do anything you don't want to do."

Courfeyrac bites his lip and nods. Whispering a thank you to Grantaire, he sighs and tries to suppress the thoughts seeping into his mind.

_What if you lose Enjolras too? _

He bites his lip harder, almost making it bleed until the metallic taste in his mouth makes him stop. His hand taps on the car again, and when they walk away from the car, he taps the tips of his fingers together instead. He's not sure why; it's almost like has to, as if it's all that blocks out the words and thoughts and feelings twisting and coiling in his mind like a snake.

But Enjolras is right beside him, his hand reaching out to give Courfeyrac's hand a squeeze every time he looks a little out of sorts. A gentle smile spreads across his face; he's been brilliant for the past few weeks. He's put up with all of Courfeyrac's newly acquired quirks, he's comforted him when he's not been feeling his best and he's cast all of his own bad feelings aside to selflessly focus on Courfeyrac's recovery. It seems to be his new coping mechanism; not quite ready to be able to handle a day of university(and not quite able to leave Courfeyrac), his usual medium is out of the window; and this one also seems to be healthier, which is a bonus.

Courfeyrac is unaware that Enjolras hasn't been sleeping at night, and crying when Courfeyrac isn't around, and tearfully confiding in Grantaire. He doesn't want to lumber his friend- still ill- with his problems; Grantaire has a different approach to things, but he's just as helpful and speaking to him makes him feel like less of a burden. He refrains from mentioning his worries over Courfeyrac; he could be overreacting, and he wouldn't want to have made a big deal over nothing.


	16. Hakuna Matata

Courfeyrac is hardly even aware what is going on during the funeral. He can hear Bahorel's voice speaking about Feuilly, yet he just can't focus on the words. It's been a poblem since the accident; he hears the words, but can't always comprehend the point of the person's sentence. At home it's usually alright; there aren't too many things going on, and Enjolras is straight to the point.

But on days like today, with masses of people and three different funerals going on consecutively, it's all a bit too much. He can't process much in his mind; it all just overflows through the nooks and tunnels of his brain and nothing makes much sense. If he had been well, this would be his cue to stand up and speak a little bit about Jean Prouvaire, yet when asked to go up he just tiredly shakes his head. Enjolras whispers a quiet explanation, before sitting back down beside him as Jehan's family get up to speak.

It's not usually as bad as this; he can usually comprehend what is going on, it just takes a lot of effort to keep concentration. But today, every word is going in one ear and out the other. He's not sure why, but he must admit he does feel a little strange- just a headache and he feels a little shaky- so he chalks it up to that and sighs as Enjolras leaves an empty space beside him as he goes up to speak about Combeferre.

This jolts him back into at least partial concentration. Enjolras has this way of talking; he explains himself very clearly, and this trait has particularly shone through following the accident, due to Courfeyrac's compromised state of mind. He doesn't quite register the happy anecdotes Enjolras mentions, but he hangs on every 'Combeferre' as if just the gentle dulcet tone of Enjolras' voice speaking the word fills the empty chair beside him with his spirit. A warmth radiates through him at the thought; as if his friend hand is brushing against his shoulder. A smile appears on his face as Enjolras sits back down.

The smile doesn't stick around. The odd feeling returns, and as everyone leaves the hall for all the functionalities of a funeral- small chat with friends and family, hushed thank you's, cold tea and stale scones- he can't bear the thought of not being able to seek refuge in the comfort of his own home for a little while. He doesn't mind much when Enjolras takes him over to speak with Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet in the car park, but he's pretty sure he doesn't want to stay for too long.

Understandably exhausted, his friends don't raise their eyebrows when he sits down beside Joly's wheelchair for a breather. Unintentionally excluded from the group as they chat, Joly and Courfeyrac spark their own conversation. A doctor, Joly's way of speaking is comforting for Courfeyrac; he explains things properly, so it doesn't feel like a challenge trying to understand.

"You're not looking too well, Courfeyrac," Joly says gently, ruffling a hand through his friend's hair as he rests his head on the arm of the chair. "You're a tad warm too."

"M'okay. How have you been?"

"Good. Physiotherapy is going well; I'm getting stronger. I may not walk again, but I can at least try can't I? I am lucky, Courfeyrac. Very lucky. I'm alive and well."

"Good..."

It's at this moment the exhaustion finally hits him. Enjolras notices, offering a hand to help him up. He smiles gently and having heard Joly's mention of 'warm', places the back of his hand against his forehead.

"Courfeyrac, are you feeling okay?"

"Just like... like I have a cold coming on?"

"It might be just that. We'll make an appointment with the doctor just to be sure Courf, but if not we'll ask at your check up tomorrow-"

"I just want home," he sighs, shoving his head into Enjolras' shoulder.

"I know, but if this is some sort of infection following your injury it could be serious-"

"I know..."

"We'll see you later on in the week," Enjolras explains. "I hope you don't mind, Musichetta, but we'll be skipping out on the invitation over."

"No bother," she smiles calmly. "I hope you're feeling better, Courfeyrac."

"Thank you."

To Courfeyrac's pleasure, Enjolras can't get an appointment so soon. It doesn't matter too much, as he's got a check up with the hospital the following morning.

"I'm sorry," he says all of a sudden on the drive home. "I've ruined today."

"You can't exactly ruin a funeral," Enjolras laughs under his breath. "I promise you, you didn't. People make such a big deal over funerals; we're better off remembering our friends the way we want to remember them."

"Everything is just weird right now."

"It will get better."

"I just... I keep having these thoughts and I see you getting hurt and I know it's irrational but I tap on something and the thoughts seem to go away I... It's like you'll get hurt if I don't."

"We'll talk to the doctor tomorrow, okay? Don't worry. We'll get something to eat and then we'll just relax tonight, okay? Grantaire is going over to Joly, Musichetta and Bossuet's for the dinner they've organized so he won't be home until later."

"Enjolras?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"Being like Combeferre."

Enjolras is a little taken aback by the comment. He focuses on the road, his eyes a little blurry with salty white tears as he fights against the smile that's about to spread across his lips. It's an honour to even be compared to Combeferre; especially considering the impact he'd had on the two surviving friends. He was their rock; the person they could go to for whatever they needed, and would always be able to give a helping hand.

"T-thank you," he grins.

"It was almost as if he was there today. It was just... warm."

"That's probably that fever of yours."

But Courfeyrac doesn't care. He sits back tiredly, still smiling wide as Enjolras shakes his head with laughter and continues to drive. Whatever is wrong with him seems to escalate a little, congesting his nose and making his eyes water, but he's happy so he couldn't really care less. He's pretty sure it's just a cold; nothing he can't deal with, even with a brain injury. Trudging through to the living room, he curls up on the sofa underneath a blanket as Enjolras asks what film to put on.

"Disney," he announces, a glimmer of the old Courfeyrac coming back into his eyes for just a second.

"Aladdin or The Lion King?" Enjolras holds up the DVDs as Courfeyrac points to one. "Ah, of course. You're practically Simba yourself, sir."


	17. Cause For Concern

Their predictions are correct, as confirmed when Courfeyrac wanders through to the living room the next morning sniffling and coughing. It's a cold, Enjolras can pinpoint by merely pressing a hand to his forehead; warm like a low temperature, but not enough to be considered a 'fever'. Nonetheless, he doesn't seem to be enjoying himself, which is exactly why he lets out an exasperated sigh when Enjolras tells him they'll be leaving for his appointment in twenty minutes.

His life seems to revolve around hospitals and doctors and pills now; check ups and trips to the GP to fetch prescriptions and every morning he has to swallow a gaggle of pills some of which are almost impossible to force down his throat(particularly this morning, when his glands feel like they've swollen up to the size of tennis balls). Just the smell of the familiar corridor-which almost makes him thankful that he can't smell through his blocked up nose this particular morning- brings back the all too recent memories, and his mood instantly deflates.

Sitting tentatively onto one of the chairs, he's thankful that Enjolras is with him to calm his nerves. The doctor has become almost like a friend over the past few weeks, but there's something about medical professionals that sets Courfeyrac's heart racing.

"I can see you aren't feeling too well today," the doctor sighs gently. "If there was anything more serious going on, we would have picked it up, but it seems to be nothing more than a cold."

"Thank you."

"Obviously, your immune system may be compromised after such a trauma, so a mere cold may end up more serious. If there's anything questionable- respiratory problems, vomiting and the like- visit your GP, or go to A and E just to be sure."

Courfeyrac leaves, but just as he's about to stand up, Enjolras asks the doctor to wait back for a second.

"I want to ask you something," he sighs. "Just quickly."

"What is it?"

"Courfeyrac's been... he's been different lately. He admitted last night that he's seeing his other friends hurt, and that he has rituals to try and stop it."

"After a brain injury such as the one your friend has suffered and especially with the traumatic loss of close friends, he is predisposed to developing things like obsessive compulsive disorder. I'll refer him to the psychiatric department for an evaluation."

But he seems fine for now; just choked up, clearing his achy throat every few seconds as Enjolras drives them home.

"There's an exam on tomorrow and a lecture afterwards, so I'll have to go into university. Grantaire will be home-"

"Can I not come? Just to say hello to everyone."

"You're ill-"

"Tis but a cold," he sniffs heavily.

Yet for Joly, who has unfortunately has acquired Courfeyrac's illness, it is not 'but a cold'. Normally mostly light hearted about his health anxiety, he almost forgets how bad it can be; day to day, he can almost laugh at his irrationality, but on the days he really is ill, the fear is no laughing matter. He can practically feel his heart stopping in his chest; his lungs shrivelling up to nothingness; his organs collapsing in on themselves. He knows it's silly, but he can't control it. His body aches and he can't breathe and he's crying and it's all out of his control.

"Joly," Musichetta lulls calmly. "Joly it will be okay."

But it isn't. In his panic, he's reminded of the odd numb feeling in his legs and that's the last straw; he's hyperventilating now. It's an unbearable sense; he can see his legs, his legs are there, but he just can't move them. Shaking, he leans into Bossuet's attempt to hug him.

"It's okay," he mumbles in a gentle tone as Joly finally begins to calm down. "I know it's difficult, but it's just a cold and nothing is wrong, Joly."

"I c-can't feel my legs," he chokes out.

"I know," Musichetta strokes a hand through his hair.

He spends the rest of the day out of sorts; Musichetta helps him from his chair to the couch, where he does nothing more than cuddle into her and Bossuet, seeking comfort in the warmth radiating from their bodies.

He hasn't had a panic attack like that for a while; his hypochondria is usually under control. It's understandable; hospital appointments and doctors and physiotherapists and pills do nothing more than stir his nerves. But he's in the best hands; Bossuet's good nature serves to cheer him up, and Musichetta's perceptiveness means that any sign of him possibly getting anxious again are quickly handled before they can spiral.

Thankfully, for both Courfeyrac and Joly's sake, their colds seem to have subsided by the next morning.

Courfeyrac- still with a bit of a chesty cough, and a red nose paired with chapped lips- happily joins Enjolras on his trip to university. Even after his friends insistence that they drive, Courfeyrac manages to convince him that he's fine with walking it there. It doesn't stop Enjolras turning his head swiftly every few seconds, making sure his friend hasn't toppled over or died on him the moment he's not paying attention. He has nothing to worry about; as far as the head injury goes, today seems to be one of his good days. Words come easy, he can interpret what others are saying to him and he just feels in control.

Grinning at friends from university as they enter the campus, he's bombarded with questions and hugs and quick waves from students in a rush. It's all a little overwhelming, but with the sight of Enjolras' blond locks in his peripheral vision, he doesn't let it bother him too much. The whole reason he's in with Enjolras is to see everyone again, so he can't really complain.

Enjolras smiles and calls over Bahorel and Bossuet when he catches sight of them outside of the lecture hall.

"Joly wanted me to tell you he hates you," Bossuet grins to Courfeyrac, sniffling heavily himself. "And I hate you too."

"Joly's fault," Courfeyrac smiles widely. "Blame Joly."

"I don't know, Courf," Bahorel pats him on the shoulder, but pulls away quickly to cough into his elbow. "I'm pretty sure you're responsible for giving this to practically _everyone _except from Enjolras and Grantaire?"

"Which makes no sense because my immune system is shit and I live with the guy?" Enjolras interjects with laughter.

"Again, _not my fault_."

"I'm guessing you're not actually sitting the exam?" Bossuet asks.

"Just here to say hi."

They chat together for a while until their course mates join them.

"Courfeyrac?" their lecturer smiles, appearing from behind them. "The four of you, come over here a minute. I wasn't expecting any of you back so soon."

"We have to get back at some point," Bahorel sighs.

"I'm just here to say hello, really. I'm not sure I'll be up to returning to the course any time soon."

"That's perfectly alright, Courfeyrac. It's great to see you so well!"

He just smiles awkwardly. He knows that everyone's kind words are well intended, yet for once, he just wants to have a conversation about something other than his brain injury with someone other than Enjolras or Grantaire. And the mumbles of "I'm sorry" just make him cringe; he may be grieving the loss of his friends, but when it's mentioned in every single conversation it just doesn't help. He expected more from his lecture, but his expectations seem to have been wrong.

So while his three friends head through into the hall to sit the exam, Courfeyrac joins the lecturer, Gary, for a cup of tea in his nearby office. Every concerned glance from the man just makes Courfeyrac want to scream with embarrassment. Before, this sort of thing wouldn't bother him too much, yet now, he just can't handle situations like this. He misses his first year lecturer; he'd not liked her much during first year, yet he'd kill to have her in the room with him instead of this strange man.

Without much to do, his mind sinks back into the day before and he finally registers that he's still under the weather. His eyes dart around the room, looking for a box of tissues. Nothing. Humiliatingly, he accepts his shame fully and runs his nose against the sleeve of his hoodie, coughing when phlegm dislodges in his throat.

Yet still, Gary doesn't notice. He just continues with his rant 'when times get rough'. Courfeyrac practically darts out the room when he sees Enjolras leaving the lecture hall. With a quickly mumbled 'I don't feel so good', mostly because he wants to avoid Gary, Enjolras quickly calls them a taxi to get home.


	18. Nil By Mouth

"Courfeyrac?" Enjolras' gentle voice breaks the awkward silence. "Are you okay?"

"It was just too much," he finally sighs, coughing into his hand. "Too much all at once."

Closing his eyes gently, he allows his weary bones to sink back into the soft cushion of the car seat. Enjolras clutches the steering wheel a little tighter, running a delicate hand through his thick blond fringe to try and calm his nerves as they approach the traffic lights. He can't shake the concern for his friend; it has lodged itself in his chest, and it's showing no signs of budging any time soon.

He doesn't like seeing Courfeyrac this way; being so unsettled over something that seem so menial. He can see the anxiety in his friend's face; riddled into every crease on his forehead; every twinge of his lips; every blink of his eyes. It just doesn't bode well with him. Courfeyrac is usually so social, but just an hour of being surrounded with people, he's a mess. He usually thrives on this kind of thing; but it's almost as if he's curled up into his shell, destined to never show his face again.

It's just today, he tries to tell himself. Courfeyrac is just ill and tired and that's why he's being like this.

But it's not just today; he's been like this ever since the accident. The tapping- that consistent little tapping- has just amalgamated; it's like a constant backing track now. Tiny little things bother him; he doesn't even seem like he wants to go out anymore.

He considers in confiding his worries into another friend; probably Joly. He soon decides this may be a bad idea; as usual, he feels like he should deal with this burden alone. He does of course mention it to Grantaire, however.

"How are you feeling?" Grantaire places a gentle hand onto Courfeyrac's forehead as he hobbles onto the couch. "And I thought you were just about over that cold."

"M'okay," he smiles gently, shifting closer towards Grantaire to try and gain some warmth. "When did they say your leg will be back to normal?"

"It'll never be how it was, but they said I can ease myself back into things like dancing and football slowly from next month. I don't really mind; it's given me a chance to focus on my art."

"That's good..." he sighs, all too quickly becoming withdrawn from the conversation.

Grantaire furrows his brow deeply with worry, now all too aware of the change in Courfeyrac's personality. No joviality or smiles or unyielding optimism; just anxiety, frowns and unyielding reservedness. He's not really had a chance to notice the difference; he's been busy fretting about the upcoming court case next month.

He doesn't want to be charged, but on the other hand he doesn't want Bahorel to be charged either. His mind is filled with images of the scene suddenly turning black; and then the red- the thick dark red- coating the grey pavement. A strange kind of guilt boils in his chest; uncontrollable. Courfeyrac's sheepish smile seems to calm him, but it still takes everything he has not to burst out in tears.

"I hate to break this to you, Courfeyrac," Enjolras wanders through with his phone in hand. "Remember you had to have scans yesterday?"

"Hmm?" Courfeyrac looks up.

"They've just emailed. Something's shown up that they must have missed. You're going in for surgery tomorrow morning."

"No..." all of the pent up emotions seem to overflow with this bad news. "No."

He's shaking; his limbs shivering violently with fear. He wasn't coherent enough to remember much from his operation after the accident, but from the recollections of his friends, he knows that he hadn't coped well. It took a lot of rehabilitation to get to where he is now, and now they're taking a step backwards. He doesn't want to lose all of the progress he has made. He clenches his fist, wishing that at least he could go through it with Combeferre right by his side; but thinking like this is a lost cause, and acts only to make things worse.

It takes Enjolras a while to coax him into leaving the house the next morning, and it takes even longer for the doctor's to coax him into even considering the day's task. By some strange miracle, they manage to convince him, leaving Enjolras alone for a couple of hours until the surgery is complete. Grantaire shows up with coffee and sympathetic smiles about an hour in, and Courfeyrac's parents call to ensure that they'll be okay without them because neither can get away from work. Enjolras almost lets it all get to him, but Grantaire's gentle grin seems to calm him down a little. His phone is filled with texts of concern, yet he's decided to wait until he doesn't feel so uptight to respond to them.

He clutches Grantaire's hand, which helps for a bit, but as the doctor wanders towards them, his heart sinks into his stomach again. He just thinks of Courfeyrac, lying their lifelessly while doctors hack away at the most delicate organ in his body. He thinks of the complications; what if he loses his memory or he can't talk or he can't move? Or worse, what if he doesn't make it?

"He's doing well," and Enjolras can sigh with relief, releasing the tears as he tugs on Grantaire's hand a little tighter.

He doesn't quite listen to what the doctor tells him after that. He follows him briskly down the hall, practically darting towards the bedside of his friend. The sight hits him quickly and terrifies him again; the half shaven head covered in dressings, the pale tone to his skin, the dreary eyes. Courfeyrac rolls over, complaining of thirst but being told he's still 'nil by mouth' by a nurse. Exhaling heavily, he begins to register Enjolras' presence, reaching out to grab his hand.

"Enjolras I hate this," he chokes out desperately. "I hate this so much."

"It's alright," Enjolras allows the side of his mouth to turn up into a slight smile.

"My l-left hand feels weird."

"That's normal."

"I c-can't smile properly either."

"That's normal too."


	19. Drizzle

It almost feels selfish that he's angry, but it's uncontrollable. It's as if he's been injected with rage, and now, in a icy sweat he's having to convince himself that storming to the hospital won't be a good idea. The last to know about Courfeyrac's sudden surgery, and Bahorel isn't happy about it. And it's not as if he was even going to be told; it had been Grantaire, not Enjolras who had told him, and it had basically just slipped from his tongue.

He can't quite get his head around what has happened with his friends. He thought that this event would bring them closer, yet they seemed to be drifting apart. Enjolras seems to be dismissive towards anyone who isn't Courfeyrac or Grantaire, Joly's so busy with well, learning how to walk again that they've hardly seen him and Marius and Cosette have never exactly been close with the rest of them. It's Enjolras' behaviour that bothers Bahorel the most; the very people who want to help Courfeyrac, and he's the one pushing them away.

He takes a minute, taking a deep shaky breath, realising that blowing his top will only make Courfeyrac upset. He resolves to visit later, consulting with Grantaire to make sure Enjolras isn't there. He once had respect for the man, yet now, he couldn't stand being in the same room as him. It's as if now Combeferre is gone, he only cares about Grantaire and Courfeyrac. As if he's blaming Bahorel and his god awful driving for it all.

Almost shoving his fist into a wall at the thought, he has to punch the air to calm down. The looming court date illuminates, blinding his eyes.

But he's got the wrong idea; Enjolras isn't trying to be distant. He doesn't blame Bahorel. He doesn't only care about Grantaire and Courfeyrac. He just doesn't feel like he can face anyone else; he'd not been there, he'd not been involved and he can't help thinking if things would have turned out the same if he had went with them. He'd have been given the responsibility to drive over Grantaire. Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Joly and Feuilly would be in his car. He'd have went a different route. Courfeyrac wouldn't have gotten hurt. Combeferre wouldn't have died. Joly wouldn't have been paralysed. Feuilly would still be alive. The crash wouldn't have happened. Jean Prouvaire would be fine.

It's for this reason-this guilt-wrenching reason- he's taking the quiet opportunity whilst Courfeyrac is sleeping to sob his eyes out. Grantaire's getting food, and won't be back for another hour. He remains quiet; any louder and he'd wake Courfeyrac; but he's awake, pretending to sleep as he listens to his friend's woes.

"Hey," he whispers gently, still having difficulty talking.

"S-sorry," he shrugs. "I'm alright. Just being silly."

"S'not silly. Comb-..." his voice fails him. "Ferre's gone. Other shit's happened."

"I-I... I mentioned to your doctor that you haven't been yourself. On top of your speech and physical therapy after this surgery, they'll be psychologically evaluating you."

"G-good. Need that. Frickin' brain won't work properly."

"We'll work on it, okay?"

Wearily, he stands. Courfeyrac watches his friend break down for just a second, before he whispers 'I need to go' and storms out. He brushes past Grantaire who has just opened the door and darts down the hall. The sob can still be heard as he disappears into an elevator, his head of greasy blond hair falling into his shaking hands. Grantaire raises his hand, his response delayed; it's too late to stop him, it's too late to try and catch him. Lost, he stares down the empty hall before returning to Courfeyrac's bedside, his appetite having vanished.

Enjolras' fist hovers over the cold metal of the sides of the lift. He can't bring himself to punch it, no matter how strong the feeling surging through his shoulder is. It'd be disrespectful; hurtful towards a place devoted to helping and healing. He has no problem punching the steering wheel when he's encased inside the bubble of his car, his fringe bouncing up and down fiercely as he sends a jab into the side of the wheel. His hand aches desperately, his knuckles are turning red and his face is turning puce but he couldn't care less.

It's too much. It's all too much. He turns his head to look at the passenger's seat, which as it turns out, is a big mistake. It's where Combeferre used to sit. Enjolras almost always drove everywhere. Another sob climbs into his chest, and he just can't stop and he's coughing and crying and clenching his fists. He half wishes he could hallucinate; to be able to be blessed with the presence of Combeferre's back against the fabric of the seat. Or his warm breath in his hear as he speaks. Or his big hands on top of his long fingers trying to get Enjolras to go into the right gear. Or his smile as Enjolras turns up the radio as a cheesy song comes on.

He sobs harder, his breaths coming fast and desperate. He presses his eyes into his palms, digging his fingernails into the top section of skin in a desperate attempt to stop crying. It's a good minute before his breathing slows and his hands unclench, the sobs escaping in short, minimal bursts. He swaps his now dried out contact lenses for his glasses. The memory of Combeferre in his own rimless pair actually calms him a little, as if there is a little piece of his friend in the car with him.

He drives mindlessly for a while, his car circling around the scene of the accident but not quite committing to turning down the road. He's only been there once to drive Courfeyrac to an appointment. The hedge of the adjacent field had been blessed with an array of flower bouquets and gifts; an entangling mess of tulips and roses and lilies and little bears. He isn't sure they'll still be there or not, and can't quite face the prospect of either option. The road is empty, somehow having become something of a 'hell-road' from the local papers calling it an accident waiting happen.

He should be with Courfeyrac, but he can't face him right now. The curve of staples in the shaved side of his head settles uncomfortably in his chest, and the twinge of a slur escaping his mouth doesn't sit well with him. Just thinking about it makes him want cry again, but he bites the side of his cheek to stop himself and continued to drive.


	20. Pretty Bizarre

**I don't know why, but the prospect of Enjolras and Cosette being friends makes me happy?**

Numb. That's how he feels now. His hands are cold, as if the capillaries on his fingertips have coiled away from the furthest regions of his skin, as if all the exists with in him is ice. His hands frozen to the wheel, he drives slowly along the road on which he lives on. It's ten minutes before he realises he's about to run out of petrol, so he quickly parks his car in the driveway and sighs, leaning against the cool metal.

He hasn't dared to cross the threshold into Combeferre's room yet, but somehow, the desire for that strange sort of comfort is fervent today. He taps the door open gently; the entrance is anti-climatic. Expecting to be come over by emotion, he's surprised when he just stands there, staring at the blue walls. Tentatively, he leans on the edge of the bed. Grantaire had washed the covers just days before, but the thick smell of Combeferre still lingers. The crisp perfume of old books and warm tea.

He steps towards the windowshelf, or 'Combeferre's bookshelf' as it had become known. Contrary to what you may think, Combeferre's books were most definitely not in pristine condition. Enjolras used to mock him for it; his own collection were obsessively perfect with pages kept by bookmarks, the spines unmarked. Combeferre's books looked _read, _the jagged lines in the spines a museum of all the times he'd picked the copy up. The pages are all dog eared several times, to the point where corners are almost ripping off. The colours of the covers are fading, an effect from their placement so direct to the sunlight. Enjolras smiles, the memory of his friend washing over him like the gentle wave of a slowing tide.

Once he's out of the vicinity of his room, the flood washes over him. Unable to handle it, he stumbles from the house and fumbles to lock the door, taking to walking mindlessly to try and calm his thoughts. Without a jacket, he shivers in the cold wind to the point where his nose is red and his teeth are chattering. Half an hour into the walk, and it begins to bucket down with rain.

"Enjolras," he hears a gentle whisper behind him after an hour or so of wandering, turning to find Cosette with her new little retriever puppy smiling at him. "Oh dear, are you alright?"

"S-sorry," he stutters.

"We're just heading home; you look like you could do with a cup of t-... hot chocolate," he almost smiles at the fact she chooses not to suggest tea; that had been Combeferre's drink. "Marius is away for work all night; I could do with some company actually."

He breathes a sigh of relief. He has grown to like Marius over the year of knowing him, but he just isn't in the mood for him tonight. He appreciates Cosette's gratitude, he really does, but he can't help feeling like a burden. Sighing heavily, he sinks down onto the sofa as Cosette heads to sort out the hot chocolate. The little dog- named Benji, probably by Marius- nudges at his hand with it's snout, pawing at his knee. He reaches a gentle hand out to ruffle the dog's fur, smiling as the dog practically begs to be held up in his arms. Almost as if it senses his shakiness, he melts into his arms, his furry little head nuzzling into the hair amalgamating at Enjolras' shoulder.

"Looks as if he's taken to you quite well," Cosette returns with two mugs, placing Enjolras' on the coffee table. "Never had you down as a dog person."

"We had a Labrador around the house when I was little," he smiles a little, stroking the puppy's ear. "Sometimes they're better than people."

"You still look freezing-"

"I'm okay."

"Enolras-..."

"Okay, maybe I'm not. But thank you. I'd have just wandered the streets for hours had you not pulled me out of my misery."

"Is Courfeyrac alright? Is that why-"

"He's better. Much better. It's just-"

"Everything?"

"Yeah, everything."

"You've probably given yourself a chill, gallivanting without a coat on," but there is no venom in her voice; just a sincere concern for his well-being. "And you're soaked through. The hot chocolate should warm you up, and of course little Benji is like a hot water bottle. If need be, I'll run down to your house for you to pick up some dry clothes, or you could borrow some of Marius' whilst yours dry on the radiator?"

"I don't want to be a bu-" Enjolras goes to protest.

"Don't be silly," she smiles. "I haven't spoken to you in ages; I've been meaning to invite you round for a catchup and to meet this little guy. I don't think we'll be getting him back any time soon."

The dog -almost as if he hears this- snuggles further into Enjolras' soaked chest. Enjolras' lips spread out into a wide grin, stroking his hand gently along the puppy's paw. It's as if all of his problems have temporarily been put on hold; Courfeyrac is safe in the hands of Grantaire and Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire and Feuilly are at peace. He smiles, resolving to make more of an effort to speak to Marius and Cosette.

He doesn't speak to them much; busy with socialising, they tend to miss meetings every so often as it doesn't seem to be much of a priority to them. He doesn't mind this fact; it's just that he doesn't get a chance to converse with them as they're not always around. He's friendly with Cosette; they seem to be well matched friends. However, Marius maybe isn't so close. He's lovely and endearing; he's just overzealous and distracted sometimes.

"Any idea when the wedding is going to be?" Enjolras asks gently.

"Marius suggested we postpone it so Courfeyrac can come," she switches on the television. "A few months maybe?"

"It's good hot chocolate."

"The best, right? It's just your regular instant stuff but we have this chocolate spread and it just melts right into it, it's amazing. So I'm thinking a little movie marathon is in order?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Alright, it's Disney, Harry Potter or... ooh! We've got Ferris Bueller and The Breakfast Club."

"You know, I've never seen either of them."

"You haven't lived, my friend."

"Now's my chance, I guess?"

"You bet."

The dog crawls off Enjolras' lap as 'The Breakfast Club' starts up on the screen. He still lingers, leaning his head onto Enjolras' knee as he takes a sip of his hot chocolate. Cosette grins from the other side of the room, watching as Enjolras smiles at the film.

"Thank you," he smiles as the film draws to a close with the famous fist held in the air. "I needed this."


	21. Your Scent Lingers

Grantaire sits quietly, careful not to wake the now sleeping Courfeyrac. Worry creeps up on him slowly, the niggling thought of his boyfriend gone AWOL finally hitting him. Luckily, Cosette's intuition means that before he pulls out all of his hair to go looking for him, he realises that she has already texted him to tell him that Enjolras is in her company. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sinks back into the uncomfortable hospital chair.

He revels in the solitude for a while, knowing Courfeyrac will be awake in just moments looking for Enjolras, followed by forlorn looks and anticipation for his reappearance. Courfeyrac's eyes flutter open, and he sits up slowly, smiling to Grantaire.

"Is Enjolras okay?" he asks gently. "He seemed sad earlier."

"Cosette's treating him to The Breakfast Club," Grantaire grins. "I'm probably going to head home and study up; back to uni tomorrow for me."

"You're leaving?" unsettled by the lack of his ordinary company, Courfeyrac looks a little subdued.

"Bahorel's coming to see you for a bit. He's bringing a huge stack of films if you're up to it."

Courfeyrac smiles a sheepish smile. Bahorel is a friend he hasn't seen for a while. He knows it's silly, but he's almost a little apprehensive to be in his company. He waves Grantaire out, shuffling over to the now free chair for a little change in scenery. He can't help but think of Enjolras, and how downtrodden he had looked before. The man of marble had crumbled right before eyes. Despite Grantaire's reassurance, the thought of his friend so distraught, so not himself makes him feel as if he's about to vomit.

In all of the fuss of the past few weeks he hadn't noticed that there hadn't been a meeting for a while. It doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but then he remembers that this is Enjolras of all people he's thinking about. The idealist who'd without fail ensure that a meeting would go ahead no matter what the circumstances.

It comes to him slowly, his brain still feeling like it's in fragments floating atop the surface. Piecing the puzzle together, he can finally grasp the reason why Enjolras has seemed so different.

He doesn't seem to believe any more.

Bahorel seems to be running late, as Courfeyrac looks at his watch and taps his foot nervously. It's not a ritual like the tapping of his hand seems to have become, yet somehow it calms him down a little. That is, until he realises that the jumper he's wearing had once belonged to Jean Prouvaire, and he's overcome by a sudden sense of melancholy that he hadn't considered much until now. Numbed by Combeferre's death and an overwhelming sense of guilt concerning the man, he's avoided the subject whole heartedly.

The jumper smells like old books and cigarettes. Jean Prouvaire had leant him it during an unfortunate case of the flu Courfeyrac had suffered whilst sleeping over at his. This grey thing -thick and warm- feels itchy against his skin. Just thinking about Jehan's arms encased in the mass of wool fills his mind with images of those brittle little sticks of bone snapping with the force of the crash. Hands curled up into the jumper he breathes calmly, trying desperately to suppress the thoughts. He fails practically tearing off the jumper(his left hand still limp, he takes longer than expected) and shoves on one of his own hoodies over his t-shirt.

In the flat, busy schedules had often resulted in the sharing of clothes. Combeferre's height had unfortunately left him exempt from this, but it hadn't stopped Enjolras and Courfeyrac acquiring a few over the years.

In fact, he's pretty sure this blue university was his at one point, but had shrunk in the wash. Too old and worn to smell of Combeferre anymore, the fabric instead carries the scent of himself and Enjolras; aftershave with an after hint of Enjolras' morning coffee. It's so familiar, especially when masking the antiseptic odour of the hospital, that he can't help but feel as if he's back at home.

Bahorel enters the room a few minutes later, standing in the door frame. He smiles as Courfeyrac doesn't notice him quite yet, admiring the serenity as his friend reminisces. He drifts into the room, hands full to the brim with practically his whole DVD collection. Courfeyrac grins up at him, signalling for him to pull up a chair. Bahorel dwarfs the blue plastic, but the sheer comedy of it all puts a smile to Courfeyrac's face.

"So when are you getting out of this dump?" he grins full-heartedly.

"Friday; weekly therapy though because my speech is still a little fuzzy."

"You'll make it to Joly's party then?"

"Joly's having a party?"

"R didn't tell you? The lousy bum. An 'I can kind of, sort of, not really walk again' party. It's just a house party, but Joly's always a good host."

"Hmm, I'm not sure I want to go without a date..." the remark is meant to be jovial, but it only ceases to remind Courfeyrac of what he had quickly avoided just a bit earlier.

"Who said you'd be going without a date?" Bahorel grins widely, instantly removing the melancholy from Courfeyrac's face.

"Stop flirting with me."

"Only if you stop flirting with me first."

"Well, fine then."

"Fine."

And just seconds later, they are in fits of laughter, sharing those glances which articulate nothing more than 'is he thinking the same thing as me?'. The answer? Yes.

Just twenty minutes or so away, Enjolras is fast asleep on Cosette's sofa with little Benji with his head propped up on the man's knee. He takes a while to shake himself from his slumber, and as he reaches for the remainder of his hot chocolate, he realises it's gone cold and sighs. He doesn't register his whereabouts until he feels the dog's paw dig into his leg as he climbs off the chair, and is overcome by an overwhelming sense of embarrassment when he sees Cosette's face smiling from the other side of the room.

"I should... I should go," he mumbles.

"No, no! It's fine," her face softens with concern. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm okay."

"That's not what Grantaire said."

"What has Grantaire said?"

"We spoke earlier. He told me you've been acting strangely recently, and to keep a little eye on you because there's no way you're going back to sit in your house yourself."

"I'm okay."

"Keep telling yourself that. There hasn't been a meeting in weeks, nobody apart from Courfeyrac or Grantaire has seen you and-"

"M-maybe I'm not fine, okay? But everyone is going through the same thing. I can't fall apart when Bahorel and Joly and Bossuet and you and everyone else are keeping together!"

"Enjolras... Marius, Eponine and I have a good old cry every week without fail. Bahorel's been going to anger management. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta are struggling. We're not all keeping it together; you don't have to be strong like that."

"It's not as if I have been today. You know, I just broke down in front of Courfeyrac and R today; like full on waterworks. And I don't do that. I'm not the kind to cry."

"Sometimes it's good to have that release. Don't bottle it up. Don't lock us all away. Look, you've probably heard from Grantaire about Joly's party on Sunday, right?"

"I haven't."

"Should have known! He's useless. Come with us. I know parties aren't your thing, but it's Joly and Joly's parties are always the best parties and we can all celebrate."

"I... I will. What are we celebrating?"

"Joly's physical therapy going well; he can walk a short distance by himself, and an even longer distance on a support such as crutches. And Courfeyrac being out of hospital of course.

"Sounds good," he nods apprehensively. "Alright. Thanks for this Cosette. Really, thank you."


	22. An Altercation

"When's the trial?" Courfeyrac asks suddenly. "Grantaire said it was next month but when exactly?"

"Saturday actually. They've moved it ahead. Grantaire probably doesn't know yet. There might be another thing to celebrate on Sunday or else..." Bahorel's smile fades, but he remains calm, if only just for Courfeyrac's sake. "All we can do is tell the truth, I guess. R will be cleared. My own fate depends on the morals of the people in the court. If they've got any sense I'll be in a jail cell by Sunday morning."

"Y-you'll be cleared. You s-said it yourself. You weren't speeding or anything. They can use the p-physics to work backwards and prove that."

"Fuck it, everyone knows I'm a dangerous driver. Maybe should've learned that first before I... before I... killed them all."

"Don't-"

"Everyone knows it's my bloody fault. They just don't want to say it to my face. Combeferre, Jehan and Feuilly are dead just because I thought it was fun to drive recklessly. You're sitting here because I'm a bloody fucking boy racer. Grantaire did bugger all; he just drove out at the wrong place at the wrong time. I-If Enjolras had been okay that day, he'd have been his usual bloody self and taken the 'safer route' and I'd still be a shitty driver but at least we'd still all be here and... and..."

"Bahorel?"

"Hmm?"

"It's not your fault. It was an accident. Y-you... you weren't speeding when the cars crashed."

"Thank you. I just hope the people in the court see it that way."

"They will."

By Saturday, Courfeyrac is already out of hospital and preparing to support Bahorel and Grantaire at the court. That is until he fully wakes up, and realises he isn't feeling his best on this particular day. A heartfelt teary apology is given to Grantaire, who smiles sympathetically and tells him that with all he's been through this week, there's no expectation hanging over his head upon his presence.

"I-I... I'm not actually sure I want to be alone," he shrugs nervously.

"I can stay," Enjolras smiles gently. "As long as that's alright with you, Grantaire?"

"It's perfectly alright. It'll be fine."

When Bahorel senses that Enjolras isn't present, he isn't happy. An indescribable anger boils inside of him; without a doubt, Enjolras is avoiding the others. He sighs, taking a couple deep breaths and prays that it all goes well.

And it does. By some miracle, neither man is charged. Elation fills the group, hugging and crying and smiling and phoning Courfeyrac to tell him that everything went their way. The day goes by in a whirlwind, and before they know it, it's Sunday, and time for Joly's party.

"I'm not actually sure I want to come," Enjolras sighs as he fiddles anxiously with his tie.

"Don't tell me," Courfeyrac-in much better spirits- grins as he fails to button up his own shirt, allowing Grantaire to help him. "You've developed a sudden, crippling migraine and you couldn't possibly leave the house."

"Shut it, you," Grantaire speaks in a gentle tone, with no harshness in it at all. "You don't have to, Enjolras. But I don't think they were happy that you weren't there yesterday. I think it would be good for you to at least show your face."

"I'll come. If only to control your alcohol intake."

"I won't drink much. I promise. I've lost the taste for it, in fact."

"No, you've got over your addiction," Courfeyrac smiles.

"Not completely. Honestly? Some days are hard to get through. But I have you guys, don't I?"

So on that note, they pile into the car with Enjolras, as usual, in the driver's seat. It's only just down the road, but Courfeyrac's still a little shaky and Grantaire's leg is still painful, so the car is in need. The street is filled with cars, and it takes him a while to get parked(or he's stalling, as Grantaire mutters to Courfeyrac under his breath), but he eventually finds a space. Tentatively, he walks up towards the door where he is welcomed by Bossuet, grinning widely.

"Come in," he ushers them though. "Everyone's here already."

Enjolras breath hitches as he walks into the room. It's the first time they've all been together for a while, and he can't help but feel as if every single eye is glaring at him.

Courfeyrac instantly reverts back into his old self, light-heartedly demonstrating the fact that his hand is still weak as he tries to throw a small ball at Marius. Enjolras smiles; it's the happiest his friend has looked for a while. He's been so stressed; with the surgery, and his speech and the strange new compulsions taking over and it's nice to see him so... carefree.

If only the same could be said about himself. He knows just from the glares that he's not exactly welcome; but on the other hand, he knows that if he leaves, they'll probably hate him even more. With Courfeyrac on the other side of the room with Bahorel, Enjolras sighs a sigh that is only audible to Grantaire. In return he whispers a quick 'we just got here', and clutches to his hand.

"Coming to get something to drink?" she raises an eyebrow at the pair and ushers them into the kitchen. "Once they've got some alcohol in them they'll be fine."

"I'm just being silly," he laughs awkwardly. "These people are my friends."

"And they won't be for much longer if you don't get your shit together. Look. It's only really Bahorel that's really unhappy with you but the others? They're kind of miffed off. You're being social for once, Enjolras. I hate being torn between you and them."

It takes him a while to sink into the night. He keeps himself to himself, speaking only when spoken to. This is classic Enjolras behaviour; they all know parties aren't really his thing. But that was before. It infuriates Bahorel, to have to watch him sit there and barely say a word. With a little bit of alcohol in his veins, the inevitable is going to happen.

"Why are you even here?" he slurs in Enjolras' direction. "We've all lost the same thing; but you? You're acting as if you're entitled to more grief!"

"I-"

"No! Just shut up! You've completely abandoned us; you failed to even tell us Courf was in the fucking hospital! Grantaire had to pick up the pieces that you tore to shreds! Now I'm sorry. Combeferre's dead. But can you stop with the whole 'I'm a mess' thing? It's been months, pal. Stop with the running away. Stop with the ignoring us."

"I didn't-"

"And you were hardly even at the funerals. You just left straight after-"

"Courf was-"

"I don't fucking care, Enjolras. Stop acting as if Courfeyrac and Grantaire are the only ones that are important here. We're all meant to be your friends too! I bet you didn't even know that Eponine's fine now. I bet you didn't even know that Joly's going to be properly walking by the end of the-"

"Please, just..." Courfeyrac storms towards Bahorel, his hand hovering over the man's face. "If this hand wasn't messed up I'd punch you right now."

"He's well out of order-"

"He's done nothing wrong. If you had any fucking idea, Bahorel! On top of all the shit we've had to deal with, he's had to put up with me. You have no clue!"


End file.
